


The Dust of Hope

by fourleggedfish



Series: The Hands of a Hundred Winters [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Chronic Illness, M/M, Magic Revealed, Other, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:20:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 51,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26329282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourleggedfish/pseuds/fourleggedfish
Summary: Sequel to The Impersonated Self<><><><><>“The tyrant is a child of PrideWho drinks from his sickening cupRecklessness and vanity,Until from his high crest headlongHe plummets to the dust of hope.”― Sophocles, Oedipus Rex
Relationships: Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: The Hands of a Hundred Winters [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1830772
Comments: 38
Kudos: 174





	1. Prologue

Arthur needed to go out and reassure his people. It was a holiday. They should be feasting right now – there was food laid out, fresh boar and venison all over the city, growing cold. Today was supposed to be a celebration. Instead, a long-forgotten queen was dead, and Arthur stood aimless in a corner of his chambers supervising Hubert and several servants the way hawks guard a nest of unhatched eggs. The mortal nature of Merlin’s wound may have been healed by magic, but the wound itself, and the blood loss were still there the same way that the bite of the questing beast remained on Arthur for long weeks of healing after Merlin’s magic saved him.

A commotion in the corridor coaxed most eyes to the door, including Arthur’s, and he drew his sword in the very real expectation that this day’s violence may not be over yet. A moment later, though, he heard Leon’s voice demanding entrance to the king. The relief that Arthur felt threatened to swamp him as he sagged against the bedpost and let his sword hang at his side. “Let him in,” Arthur called.

The many servants mobbed in the hall around the door must have finally let Leon pass, because he slipped inside a moment later, his face pale and his clothing dirty from days on the road. “Sire!” He rushed forward to clasp arms in greeting, and then took in Arthur’s appearance before glancing past him to the still figure in Arthur’s bed. “I should have been here.”

“No,” Arthur negated. “You were doing as I asked.”

Leon appeared unconvinced, but he nodded. “The people are in an uproar. They’re saying that you legalized magic, and that Merlin is dead. That there was some plot and enchantment – ”

Arthur lifted a hand between them to stay Leon’s words. He didn’t want to even think on what might have been just a few candlemarks ago. “I don’t know all of the facts yet. But Merlin is not dead, and there was no magic involved in what happened.”

“Then you... Magic? Sire, you didn’t.”

Arthur’s eyes shot back to Leon’s face, and his own expression must have been awful to make Leon step back like that. He had thought that Leon wanted this too. He had thought the man an ally. “Did Hunith come?”

“Yes, sire.” Leon appeared apologetic for his words as he gestured to the corridor beyond. “I tried to shield her from the talk in the streets, but she is worried.”

“Bring her in,” Arthur replied.

Leon hesitated, though. “Perhaps you should allow George to clean you up first.”

Arthur glanced at him, startled once again by the reminder, and then looked down at the grizzly picture he made, covered in dark stains of Merlin’s blood where it had soaked into the knees of his trousers, and dried in smears across the front of his ceremonial armor. He knew it painted his face as well, spatters of dying breath etched on his skin. “No. Bring her in.”

Uncertain perhaps at the dead calm of Arthur’s affect, Leon nodded and moved away toward the door. After speaking briefly with the people outside, they parted to allow Hunith entry. She seemed better put together than Leon, but her face was still pale and drawn. Arthur wondered if it were only the tales she’d heard in the lower town that made her appear so.

Arthur stepped forward to take her hand as she paused in the middle of the room. “It’s alright. Hubert tells me he’ll recover; it will just take time. It’s not a mortal blow anymore.”

Hunith tore her eyes from the group around the bed that blocked her view of her son. “Anymore?”

Whatever reassurance Arthur might have given stalled. Would it be crass of him to say that thankfully, Hunith’s mother chose to die instead? Rather than try to address that, or explain when he didn’t know how much she already knew, Arthur merely drew her forward with him. The women assisting Hubert parted to make a place for her with deferential gestures. Hunith didn’t seem to notice the way they behaved; she was too focused on the limp form of her son draped over pillows on his stomach to expose the stab wound to the air. Hubert didn’t incline his head to her as the others did, but he took the time to speak lowly to her as he continued to clean out what was left of the wound.

Arthur left her there to watch and draw her own conclusions for the time being. Leon waited gravely to one side, and from his stance, it was orders that he was looking for. The royal steward had arrived at some point as well – a sharp and pointy man given to pinched features and severity of mien. Arthur addressed him rather than Leon. “You’ve come to tell me that everyone is assembled in the throne room?”

The steward, Alder, bowed with a correctness that put even George to shame. As it should; Alder was the man’s father. It painted an odd picture in Arthur’s mind, given that Alder had served in his capacity since Arthur was small, under Uther’s reign. George’s resemblance to him seemed little more than a shallow likeness. “Yes, sire. All parties await your majesty’s pleasure.”

“Good.” Arthur twisted his upper body and caught sight of Hunith pulling on the chain around Merlin’s neck to expose the royal seal of Arthur’s house. He shifted his eyes away from her and waited until Gwaine met his gaze. “You will stay here. No one enters without my leave.”

If Arthur didn’t know him so well, the cold look in Gwaine’s eyes might have frightened him. It spoke of the kind of fury that came quiet like a predator in the night. Uncharacteristically, all Gwaine said was, “Yes, sire.” Arthur had expected an argument, or a demand for the right of vengeance. Perhaps Gwaine well knew the danger of his own impulses, and the wisdom of staying where he was.

“Sire.” Hunith pulled away from the bed and turned to face him. “I would like to accompany you, if you would allow it.”

Arthur paused to study her briefly. He knew this woman – kind and unapologetic for her poverty. She appeared little changed from the woman who had housed him in Ealdor, and fought for her small village, except for age. A peasant, and yet noble in some way. “My lady – ”

“Please, sire. It is my family that was wronged, as much as yours.”

Arthur swallowed. “I fear that you may hear some things that would shock you. It may be better to wait until I can explain – ”

“Did you not make him family?” Hunith gestured back to Merlin, and the seal she had seen him wearing.

“I did,” Arthur croaked. “He is.”

“I know.” Hunith tried to smile, but it came off wet and wobbly. “I have explanations to give as well.”

Arthur stepped away from Leon and Alder to face her properly. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“With respect, I believe I do, sire.” She spared a glance back, but it only touched on Merlin’s boots where they muddied the coverlet on Arthur’s bed. His clothing had been cut away from his upper body in Hubert's haste to see the damage beneath, and lay in a wet, bloody heap covering the small of his back. It was enough to make Arthur's bile threaten to rise. Hunith swallowed and looked away quickly, as if she suffered the same. “The time for keeping secrets seems to be past.”

Arthur didn’t nod, but he acknowledged that all the same. “Your mother…the Lady Gwendydd…”

“I know my lineage, sire.” Hunith bit her lip to contain whatever she felt at that. “And I ask for nothing from it. I never wanted my family’s curses inflicted on my son. My mother died a long time ago. Her titles may lay with her. I am content with that.”

The way she said that betrayed a cruel truth, because it seemed clear that she thought it in the literal sense. She didn’t know that her mother had lived all these years in Camelot, finding succor only among whores. And Perhaps Arthur needed to reevaluate his opinions of that trade, if it was the one place a disinherited queen found safe harbor until this day. Arthur had no idea how to even begin breaking that news, though, so he merely gestured her toward the door. “There is something you should see first.”

The chapel hall stood mostly empty, as it always had, save for the raised stone in the center of the room. Once, Arthur’s father had lain here for the watch before his entombment. Now, a different royal house occupied this room, but one would never know it. The only attendants to the body were prostitutes in obnoxiously shiny rags.

Arthur immediately stopped himself from that train thought, as he knew how uncharitable it was. Especially now, after learning that only a brothel had heart enough once to offer harbor to the disinherited. What did it say of Camelot that the kindest people within her walls were the shunned women who sold their flesh for bread?

Hunith paused in the doorway when Arthur did, and turned back to ask him a silent question.

“Please.” Arthur urged her forward, and moved to precede her to the plinth so that he could pull back the sheet covering the lady Gwendydd’s face. He glanced back and waved Hunith to his side. “Do you recognize her?”

Age and toil had certainly not been kind to the late queen, so it was no surprise at first that Hunith merely appeared puzzled. “My lord? I don’t understand.”

The brothel madam, who Arthur had learned was called Seren, stepped up to Hunith’s other side in a manner that echoed not a prostitute, but a lady’s maid, as she almost certainly had been, in truth. “My lady Hunith.” She curtsied, and then clasped her hands, so far from the mannerisms Arthur had seen in her from the street of the lower town. “I served your mother with all my heart, ma’am. It is my honor to offer you the same, such as it is.”

Hunith blinked at the woman, looked again to the greying, still face in death before her, and then stepped back with a breath that visibly hollowed her stomach. “Oh.” Arthur and Seren both steadied her as she backed away another step and exclaimed again, faintly, “Oh.”

Arthur looked away to spare her a witness to her shock and grief. “I’m sorry, my lady. The queen of Dyfedd is dead.” Then he looked back, and gently proclaimed in a hushed and private tone for only those few in the room with them to hear, “Long live the queen.”

It took a moment for Arthur’s words to penetrate, and then Hunith covered her mouth as she looked at him. The women surrounding Wynn’s body curtsied low as she stood there.

“Your house was never purged. The titles remained.” Arthur tried to hold that out as a comfort, though he didn’t see how it could be one. “It’s no replacement for what you’ve lost, but your family is my family, if you’ll have us, cousin.”

Hunith’s eyes filled, and her breaths sounded shallow as she stared. Seren seemed to be supporting part of her weight as well, where she stood with Hunith’s arm leaning over hers.

“You don’t have to answer,” Arthur assured her. “And I place no obligation on you.”

Something in Hunith’s façade cracked, and she straightened to cup Arthur’s face in her hands as only a mother can do to a child she loves. It was something Arthur never had, growing up. He didn’t expect the way it made him feel now, conflicted and somehow more alone, but he allowed Hunith to smile and wipe at his cheeks with her thumbs because it seemed to be something she needed to do. “Precious boy,” she whispered.

Arthur couldn’t quite hold her gaze; it was too forgiving of the terrible things he’d done in his life, and the debt he owed from his father. Rather than try to feel any of that, lest he be tempted to forget, Arthur told her, “Anything you need, it’s yours. And Merlin’s. Anything.”

“I have what I need,” Hunith replied. When she let him go, Arthur couldn’t tell if he were relieved or upset at the loss of her gentle touch.

Arthur cleared his throat and stepped back. “My court is waiting, unless you want to remain here? Or go back to your son?”

Hunith composed herself as well. “No, sire. I need to see this through.”

“Of course.” Arthur nodded toward the hall. “If you’ll follow me.”

It gave Arthur a sense of rightness when the guards at the door bowed as she passed, followed by Leon and the knights waiting outside, and then Alder and Sir Geoffrey with his log book. Seren came with them, one step behind her new queen. Just outside the doors to the throne room, Arthur paused to gather himself. He knew that he looked a fright, bloodied and pale still, but it served as a reminder. He straightened his sword belt, glanced back at the retinue of people following him, and then strode inside.

The room fell silent as Arthur entered. He strode past his knights – most of them the men who had accompanied Arthur on the ill-fated hunt. There were others present as well, though – a few older lords retired from the council, higher ranking servants including the head cook, and the emissaries to Camelot’s court from Mercia and Nemeth with their secretaries. Arthur largely ignored them all. He didn’t even look at Meliot knelt in the center of the room before the empty throne, bruised from Gwaine’s fists and stripped of his armor and the trappings of his rank. He looked small, folded up there with his head down. The way Merlin had looked small in the armory, begging Arthur to use anything but fire to kill him. Was it really only a mere week ago? Six days for so much to fall apart.

Before Arthur could cross even half of the room, a guard stepped out in front of him and dropped to his knees. “This is my fault, sire. I told Sir Meliot what I heard. What he did was on my testimony.”

Arthur dropped back onto his trailing foot and stared at the man’s bowed head. “You indicated your silence that night. I took you at your word.”

“I know, sire.” The guard remained where he was, his eyes trained lower than Arthur’s boots in front of him. “After you passed, I worried about what I’d heard all night. And on my patrol, I noticed light under Sir Meliot’s door. It was an impulse, sire, and ill-thought. I didn’t know what else to do. I feared you had been enchanted, or that perhaps Merlin had, and that you would need help with some plot. I never meant to betray, sire. I was confused, and afraid for you. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You should have come to me with these concerns.”

“I didn’t know if I could,” the guard admitted softly. “If you were under a spell, you would kill me, and then no one would know to help you.”

Arthur glanced aside, and then down, his heart pounding with unexpressed anger, but also shame for letting it come to this, for keeping so many secrets that his own men couldn’t bring their concerns to him. And perhaps the anger he felt was less for the guard’s broken promise, and more for his own short-sightedness. “Get up.”

The guard twitched as if expecting something else, and then slowly climbed back to his feet.

“You have a family?”

“I…” The guard’s face paled. “Sire, please. They’ve no part of this. I bear the shame alone.”

Arthur sneered at him. “I’m not threatening your family. For gods’ sakes.” He whirled away and rubbed hard at his brow in an effort not to lose sight of his goals when his temper frayed more with each interaction forced upon him. “It is a holiday. You should be with them. Go home. And tomorrow, you will report to the perimeter watch commander in the south tower. I will make it clear to him that you endure no censure for what happened here, but you are banned from the royal apartments and any duties which may directly involve me or my household. Even if I accept your explanation for your part in this, you have made it clear that I cannot trust your judgement.” Arthur let out a long sigh and looked up at the ceiling instead of the guard, or anyone else. “Now get out. This matter is closed.”

Behind him the guard babbled inane gratitudes and at least one more apology before the sound of hasty footsteps carried him out of the throne room. Arthur turned toward the low murmurs coming from beneath the windows that let in light from the courtyard. Leon and a servant were attempting to convince Leundugrance to leave.

“Leon.” Arthur hurried over. “A moment, please.”

Leon shuffled aside. “Of course, sire. I only wanted to ensure that there would be no interruptions from my father.”

“It’s alright.” Arthur squeezed Leon’s shoulder as he passed. “I believe that your father was instrumental in mitigating the deaths we saw today.” He tried to give Leon an encouraging smile, though it likely fell short, and knelt down in front of the stool that someone must have pulled over from a corner. Oddly, Howel stood beside him still, and his stance seemed both protective and one of old friendship, though long soured by the elder man’s senility. “My lord, forgive me. Do you have a moment to speak of what happened today?”

Leundugrance hummed at something that only he could likely see past Arthur’s ear.

“My lord?” Arthur placed a hand on one thin, boney shoulder, joints fragile under paper-velum skin. It at least drew a wobbling gaze his way. “My lord, I wonder if you can take yourself out of your pocket for a moment?”

Behind Arthur, Leon repeated that odd phrase to himself. It could not have made any sense to him, but Howel smiled a bit, and Leundugrance focused on him, if absently. “Hm. I like my pockets.”

“I know you do,” Arthur told him. “But I really need to talk to you about what happened today.”

“It’s hard to climb out,” Leundugrance lamented lowly.

“Will you do it for me?” Arthur asked in like tone. “And after, you can go back in and sleep, or do whatever you wish. Please? It’s about Myrddin.”

Leundugrance grinned, all of his yellowed teeth showing – the ones he had left, anyway. “Such a good boy. Takes after his father. Suffers his mother's madness, though; such a shame. He could never be free of it.”

Arthur nodded. “What happened today in the courtyard? You spoke to George, my servant.” Arthur could have asked George himself, of course, and he would later. But for now, George had his duties in Arthur’s chamber, and Arthur preferred him there to keep an eye on things.

“Alder’s boy,” Leundugrance nodded at the ceiling. He might not have known who he was even speaking to at that moment. “Mm. He runs well. I can’t run anymore. It called for running.”

“What did?” Arthur held his fingers up in Leundugrance’s line of vision, then drew the old man’s gaze back to his own without touching him. “Did you tell him to run?”

“I remember!” Leundugrance asserted with surprising force. “He made me promise I wouldn’t forget. I never forget. I kept it in my pockets so it wouldn’t get lost.”

Arthur nodded, and ignored the shuffling of Leon and a few others behind him. “What did you promise?”

“It can’t be forgotten. Dyfedd can’t be forgotten. I told my boy that too. Don’t forget, I said. We can’t forget about them.”

Leon cleared his throat. “The lineage, sire. As I mentioned before, he bade me remember.”

Arthur glanced back and nodded, then up to Howel. “Do you recall what was said, my lord?”

Howel glanced down at the top of old Leundugrance’s head. “He told George to find the queen, but it was I who told him where to find her.”

“Then you did know her the other day in the street?”

“I wasn’t certain, sire.” Howel frowned at his hands. “It has been a long time, but I could think of no one else he might have meant. It was a chance to take, that it was her.”

Arthur nodded and looked once again to Leundugrance, who seemed happy to hum some wordless song with his eyes closed now, rocking back and forth on his stool. But then he perked up and told no one at all, “You don’t have to worry. He knew all along, it couldn’t be him.”

The words, so familiar, struck Arthur’s features slack on his face. “He planned this? Myrddin?”

“Mad old sorcerer,” Leundugrance muttered with a hint of asperity. “But not mad enough. Should have kept to his pockets. Can’t catch on fire there.”

“Did the Lady Gwendydd know? All this time, did she know?”

“No one ever knows,” Leundugrance crooned. “Smoke and crystals, he told her. Sight goes with age. I can see you, though. No more turtles here. They’ll steal your life if you let them. Promise it to someone else. Where is my pocket?” Leundugrance patted around his person in a sudden burst of concern. “I need my pockets!”

Arthur swallowed with the realization that he would likely never get the full story from Leundugrance, but he didn’t need it. The old man had done his part, and Arthur could forgive him his lapses. “Here, my lord.” Arthur guided his hand to a breast pocket and watched Leundugrance smile in relief at finding it. “Thank you for climbing out. To your last, you have served Camelot well.”

“Picket pocket ladder stop. Climb too high and buckets drop.”

Arthur nodded as he lowered his eyes to the floor and stood. He clapped Leon on the shoulder and allowed the servant to resume his promises of warm wine and blankets to coax Leundugrance off of the stool. Everyone in the room, save one, watched him amble away, sidetracked as he went by tapestries and then the wood grain of the door. “Don’t forget!” Leundugrance admonished it. “Tell her when it comes. You’ll know. She's waiting. Cranky old goat, he was, but we promised.” He made a few more insistent sounds at the lintel, gibberish by Arthur’s guess, before the servant was finally able to lead him out of sight.

Speaking of the one who did not turn to watch Leundugrance leave, Arthur let out his breath and meandered across the room at a safe distance from Meliot. “You lied to me, Sir Meliot. To my face this afternoon in the colonnade, and before that when Korbin’s men caught you in the vaults.” Arthur didn’t approach his throne. He faced it, but only because no one stood near enough to it to threaten him with acknowledgement or expectant glances. Or doubt. “You attacked a member of my household in plain sight of at least a hundred people, and sought to ruin the trust I have fought to build on the integrity of my crown.” When Meliot didn’t respond, Arthur turned to face him. The only sound in the room for a long time was that of Arthur’s labored breathing as it hissed and spit unexpectedly through his teeth. Finally, when he felt able to make his words intelligible, Arthur growled, “Give me one good reason not to kill you here and grind your blood into the tile grout as a reminder.”

Arthur could not recall a single moment when Meliot had ever been this subdued. His voice hoarse and thick, Meliot merely said, “I thought I was protecting you.”

An incredulous sound raked Arthur’s throat on the way out. “Protecting me? From _Merlin_?”

“He’s a sorcerer.”

“I know what he is!” Arthur bellowed.

“I didn’t know.” Meliot lowered his head even more, and to Arthur’s incredulity, he sounded as if he’d started to cry. “I didn’t know. I swear, sire. I thought he must have enchanted you, and your speech today…I thought there was no more time. I had to act. But then the way you looked…the way you sounded when you realized… It’s the way Uther sounded when Ygraine lay dying. I didn’t want another one of him, I swear. No one would ever be safe.”

Arthur’s lip trembled as his lungs seized in his chest. He only realized that he had drawn his sword when he noticed the point of it digging into the back of Meliot’s neck. “This wasn’t spur-of-the-moment. You contrived to steal a magical blade from the royal vaults to do it with. You were stalking him in the wheat field!”

“I’m sorry,” Meliot coughed. “I thought I was saving you from him.”

Arthur couldn’t stop shaking all of a sudden. He shoved his sword harder into Meliot’s skin, right into the spot where, on Merlin’s neck, the knot of his neckerchief would sit. A single bead of blood welled up against his blade, broke, and slid in a crimson line toward Meliot’s ear. The only spot of color in a grey room. “Do you know what Merlin told me last night?”

Meliot shook his head, even though it caused Arthur’s sword to dig in deeper.

“He told me that if one of my knights tried to kill him, he wouldn’t stop them.” Arthur grit his teeth over the impulse to simply jab his blade forward. It would be so easy. So _satisfying_. “Because my knights are supposed to protect me. And that’s not wrong of them. And he doesn’t want to hurt people who are not doing anything wrong.”

Meliot flinched as Arthur flipped his sword up, and then watched Arthur’s feet carry him away toward to the people lining the perimeter of the room.

“You attempted to assassinate a prince of Dyfedd,” Arthur announced, his voice flat by force alone. Several of those gathered murmured to themselves at this new information, while others merely heard the confirmation of what they already suspected or knew on their own. “And through your actions, its queen lay dead.”

“I place myself at your mercy, sire.”

Arthur bit the tip of his tongue and then countered, “You should be placing yourself at the mercy of Dyfedd. However wrought that alliance, Dyfedd is sworn to Camelot, and has proven itself in spite of us. You risk a war by your actions. How am I to appease them?” No matter that Dyfedd had no armies left. Or at least, not the kind that men were accustomed to fighting. Arthur had to wonder, if idly, what kind of force of magic might rise against them, were Merlin to call for it. Morgana’s allies still littered his kingdom; they might answer another call like hers.

Meliot snuffed at the floor where his knees rested. “I didn’t know. I swear, I didn’t know.”

“Spare him.”

Arthur looked up to where Hunith stood slightly apart from the others. He had wondered what she would say, when she realized that Arthur meant to leave the decision in her hands. If she would accept the burden. “My lady. You wish to speak?”

Hunith swallowed and glanced about at the sudden collection of eyes resting surprised upon her. “Sir Meliot acted according to his conscience. Even if he were right, he knew he could have been killed for his act of loyalty. Dyfedd forgives those who recognize their mistakes, sire. There has been enough death.”

No one moved for several moments, and then Arthur looked down at a man he had never liked, and who had never liked him. He didn’t trust Meliot’s show of repentance, but at the same time, he had no proof that what he claimed now was a lie. Softly, with a hint of teeth, Arthur asked him, “Do you know what else Merlin believes?” Without waiting for a response, he continued, “He believes that clemency is a virtue. Remember that as you walk these halls in future. It is only for him that I spare you. Do you understand?”

Meliot shifted on the ground and finally raised his eyes. The arrogance was still there, as it must be – no man can change his nature so quickly. But it was tempered now, and he had been humiliated. Meliot was not an easy man, and he and Arthur would never like each other, but Meliot did try to be loyal. He always had, in his own way. “Sire?”

“The Queen of Dyfedd has advocated for you, though you tried to murder her son.” Arthur shifted to make sure that his sword, while visible, remained pointed at the floor. “I accept her treaty on your behalf.”

Over near a pillar, Leon appeared ready to object, but he quelled the impulse without interference from anyone else.

“But I only forgive once, Sir Meliot. Your lapse was understandable this time. Such acts will not be excused again. My knights and nobles will support this kingdom, and the laws I make for it, or they will no longer enjoy my lenience. Get up.”

Meliot climbed slowly to his feet, his eyes flickering to the sword in Arthur’s hand. “I thank you, most humbly – ”

“Save it,” Arthur snarled. “And get out of my sight until I can look at you again without the blood you put on my hands.”

Meliot swallowed his words and the pride he had left, bowed, and then paused as he realized that at least half of those present were turning their backs to him as he stood. His slow steps carried him through a gauntlet of disgrace as he made his retreat. 

Arthur deflated like a bellows as soon as Meliot was gone, and then nodded to Hunith that she might leave as well to go sit with her son. The congregation broke apart after that, and Arthur finally sank to sit on the throne he had claimed as his own for perhaps the first time. He would need to show his face in the lower town and put the fears of his people to rest, make sure that they still enjoyed at least some part of the celebrations and feast. But first, he needed this moment to himself, to let the weight of a kingdom settle onto shoulders that had finally built up strength enough to accept it.

~TBC~


	2. Chapter 2

** Three months later… **

“It shouldn’t still bother you like this.” 

Merlin glanced over his shoulder to where Arthur stood in the doorway to the physician’s chamber, and then nodded back at George to continue helping him into his wool-lined surcoat. “I was stabbed,” Merlin reminded him quietly.

Arthur frowned and came into the room, shutting the door behind him. “You can barely lift your arm above your shoulder.”

When Merlin merely ducked his head further away at the excuse of doing up buttons and ties, George inclined his head at Arthur and remarked, “It is much better, sire. Damage to the tendons takes longer to heal than that done to muscle.”

“Yes, I know.” Dissatisfied, Arthur nonetheless had to accept this. Hell, he’d consoled Gwaine over the course of a dozen miserable, drunken evenings when Hubert accidentally let slip that Gwaine tackling Meliot before he’d withdrawn the blade had jarred it hard enough to slice sideways and cut through more than just muscle and lung. It needed time to heal. It was the same thing that Merlin and Hubert had both been telling Arthur for weeks now, and he knew from his own experience with injuries in training that the recovery period for such things could be drawn out – perhaps as much as a year to regain full motion and strength. It just bothered him, to see Merlin hobbled like this. And the change to his demeanor didn’t help. Merlin wasn’t so angry at everything anymore, not that Arthur could tell, but he wasn’t much of anything else either. The quiet bordered on disturbing from a man in the habit of muttering or babbling on about nonsense just to fill any silence. And Arthur wasn’t the only one growing concerned by it. He grimaced and demanded, “Tell me again why you can’t just use magic on it."

Merlin scrubbed at his chest as if he could still feel the puncture there, and the blood that drowned him. Arthur hated it when he did that; it always left him feeling chilled. “I told you,” Merlin replied softly. “I don’t want to risk making it worse. Some things are better left to heal with time.”

Of course. Arthur sighed and perched himself on the edge of a table while Merlin puttered about, packing the day’s medicine deliveries into a carrying basket that George held out for him. It was somehow worse that Merlin no longer vehemently objected to having servants of his own. He didn’t object to much at all, really. “Your dragon was sighted again, out by the lake.”

Merlin slowed in his movements, blinked off to one side, and then his chest puffed up as he evidently used his breath as an impetus to keep moving. “Is he bothering anyone?”

“No,” Arthur replied. “But maybe it’s time to – ”

“No,” Merlin murmured. It cut sharper for its sanded edges. “I have nothing to say to him.”

Arthur nodded because he had expected that response, but it wasn’t an agreeable gesture. “George, would you give us a moment alone?”

As George bowed and set the basket down near Merlin’s elbow, Merlin twisted to object. “We have rounds – ”

“Your rounds will keep for one moment, Merlin.” Arthur tipped his head as George left, and then approached Merlin. Before he could go anywhere, or resume fussing with the medicines, Arthur grabbed gently at his face to force him to have this conversation. “Stop. Just stop. I know that these last few months have been difficult for you, but this is not healthy.”

Merlin raised his arms, presumable to shove Arthur’s hands off, and then hissed as he strained his shoulder too far. “I have work to do.”

“Your mother says that you won’t see her. Gwaine thinks you hate him now – ”

“You’re all overreacting.” Merlin knocked one of Arthur’s hands away with his good arm, and then simply ducked back from the other.

Arthur waited for the kind of argument Merlin normally made against him, and it didn’t come. In fact, Arthur was the only one of them who had participated in any of their arguments since Samhain. He watched Merlin flex his shoulder and then resume gathering things to put into his basket. Any number of angry retorts came to Arthur’s mind, but he suddenly didn’t have the energy to deliver any of them. “You’ll be at the council meeting?”

“Of course, sire.” Merlin patted about the table without looking until he found the basket lid, rearranging things to fit with the other. If his voice at least betrayed _something_ , or had an edge to it, no matter how blunted, Arthur would have felt better about it.

“Then…” Arthur shifted and straightened as Merlin draped the carrying strap over his good shoulder. “Then I’ll see you later this morning.”

“Mm-hm.” Merlin nodded absently at whatever bits of parchment he was sorting into order, and then spared Arthur the barest of glances. “Later. Good morning, sire.”

Arthur stared after him as he left, and then kept staring out the open door into the empty corridor. After too long spent gathering wool, sopping wet in his thoughts, Arthur shook himself and looked around the oddly neat room. Neither Merlin nor Gaius before him had ever been so tidy. George’s influence was obvious, and Arthur hated it. The whole room was sterile, the same way Merlin had been acting since the fated speech day.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Arthur hiked an eyebrow as he read through the missive that Geoffrey handed him as he walked into the council meeting. “The druids want to meet with us?” When Arthur had to twist full around to face Geoffrey as he spoke, he made a point to slow down in deference to old bones suffering the winter cold. “Sir Geoffrey, I know for a fact that Merlin is going to have kittens when he sees how bad your joints are treating you.”

“Do you think he’ll actually make kittens?” Geoffrey mused. “That would be a sight.”

Arthur offered him an indulgent smile, but it was sad too. Geoffrey seemed less sharp this winter, and it made Arthur think hard on his aging court. The paigeboy that Arthur and Alder had assigned him glanced past Geoffrey’s shoulder to grimace at Arthur. It was a bad day, then. Arthur nodded back to the paige and kept his steps in line with Geoffrey’s, in case either of them might need to catch him in a stumble.

Most of the council milled about the room already, and Arthur nodded to several of the men as he passed. It appeared that Meliot still endured his shunning at the hands of the rest of the court, as he sat alone at the table, frowning at his own papers while everyone else gave him a wide berth. It heartened Arthur to see the majority of his councilors pull together in support of Merlin’s presence among them, but he would have to put an end to this treatment soon. Arthur pardoned Meliot, and as much as he disliked the man and always had, there was nothing to gain from prolonged alienation of an allied household. In the long run, it could backfire at a time when Camelot needed unity.

Arthur accompanied Geoffrey to the table and ensured his comfort before heading to his own chair. The rest of those present took their cue and settled around the table as well. With a glance to his left, Arthur asked in general, “Has anyone seen Merlin?”

“Late again,” Leon replied, smiling. “We should tell him council starts at the second bell, if we want him to show up by the third.”

Geoffrey’s paige perked up from behind the old man’s chair. “There is an outbreak of fever in the lower town, sire. He may still be there.”

Arthur bounced his eyebrows at that. “Well, I can hardly fault his dedication as court physician. No kittens today, Sir Geoffrey; you’re on reprieve. Let’s get started without him.” He held up the letter that Geoffrey had given him. “We have our first overture from the druids.” Arthur lowered the letter and squinted at the signature on it. “Someone called Alator. I’m not familiar with him. He’s asked for an audience.”

Gwaine frowned, sneered at Meliot as he had taken to doing at every opportunity, near as they sat to each other, and then asked Arthur, “In the dead of winter? Seems an odd time to travel.”

“Indeed,” Arthur agreed. “Sir Geoffrey.” Arthur turned the letter around and pointed at the symbols beside Alator’s name. “Is this a crest of some kind?”

Sir Geoffrey stirred himself from his careful arrangement of pen and log book. “It signifies the order of the Catha, sire. Presumably, Alator is a priest of the order, if he claims to speak for them.”

Marwen shifted in his seat. “Catha are a warrior cult of some kind, I believe. I thought them all destroyed in the purge.”

“It could be a bid for revenge,” Leon interjected. “We should be cautious, sire.”

Arthur hummed noncommittally, because he expected Leon to say such things. He commanded Arthur’s personal guard; it was his job to manage risks. “He seems pretty keen on Merlin. Emrys this, Emrys that. Says he’s been hunted through all the five kingdoms, but shares our hope for the better world we seek to build, and then more about Emrys and...unity.” Arthur frowned. “I don’t see why he didn’t just address this straight to Merlin. Seems a little obsessed.” Arthur flapped the parchment and then passed it to his right so that the rest of the council could have a look.

The door at the rear of the chamber clanged a moment later, and Merlin slipped through, his hair covered in fresh snow that he paused to violently brush off. The tone throughout the room changed, miniscule but obvious, and Arthur watched Merlin hurry to his seat at Arthur’s left.

“You’re late,” Arthur told him.

“I was held up.” Merlin offered no further explanation.

Arthur waited until he scooted his chair into place before asking, “Do you know someone called Alator?”

Merlin paused, glanced around at the collection of expectant or uncomfortably averted faces that numbered roughly down the middle of the council’s number, and then inquired, “Why?”

Marwen held up the letter before he passed it to the next person. “He has a lot to say about you, Master Emrys.”

Merlin squirmed in his seat and tucked his medicine bag down near his feet. “I really wish you’d stop calling me that.”

With a glance at Marwen to warn him off, Arthur asked Merlin, “You know him?”

“Not exactly.” Merlin tried to settle himself more comfortably in the chair, and rubbed the front of his shoulder as he leaned back. “I met him once. He was…dedicated.”

Caradoc cleared his throat as he read the letter over Marwen’s shoulder. “Yes, to you, apparently.”

Merlin just shook his head a bit and looked as if he hoped people would stop talking to him.

Lamorak tapped the hilt of his boot knife against the table, fingers carefully splayed along the dull edge of the blade. “We haven’t heard from the surrounding kingdoms since your announcement, sire. It stands to reason they might see us as a threat now that we’ve technically broken treaty terms on magic. If I wanted to spy into the court of my neighbor, I might use a ruse like this.”

“He did request to meet in the Darkling Wood,” Arthur acknowledged. “It’s a good place for an ambush. Dense…rocky…uneven terrain, narrow paths.”

Leon straightened and rearranged his cloak over the arms of his chair. “It seems unwise to lure you there, sire. The Darkling Wood is full of magic. They’d have to know that you’d bring Merlin with you; it would be baiting a lion. And they’ll be buried in snow by tomorrow, anyhow. Hardly a good place to fight.”

Gwaine shook his head. “I don’t like it, especially if they have some warrior sorcerer with them.”

Arthur glanced to his left and watched Merlin pick at his fingers where they rested in his lap, his eyes trained blankly on his hands. “What do you think?” Arthur asked.

“Hm?” Merlin flickered his gaze over the empty air above the table. “Um. I think that you should do what you believe is best for Camelot.”

Rolling his eyes, Arthur griped, “Yes, obviously. Do you think this Alator is genuine about his request?”

Merlin stole a glance at Arthur’s torso, and then his eyes darted back and forth as he stared across the table at Aymer, who now held the letter. With a shiver, Arthur realized that he was reading it. From clear across the table, on a page facing away from him. Aymer seemed to reach a similar conclusion, as he leaned sideways and sort of held the letter up by a corner while trying not to move otherwise. Merlin blinked a few times, rapid flicks of his eyes as if he’d gotten dust in them, and then twitched as he angled away from Aymer again. “I really couldn’t say, my lord.”

Arthur stared past Merlin’s ear in an effort to pretend that he was considering that, and also that he was not at all disturbed at all by the open display of strange magic. It was one thing when he knew it was coming, but no matter how often he told Merlin to be free about using it, every such use gave him pause. What he really wanted to do, though, was smack Merlin for being politic. If he’d intended to have another noncommittal yes-man in the room, he would’ve appointed George to the council. Although George did seem to be more opinionated nowadays, so that probably wouldn’t have worked out either. Arthur let out a long breath. “I want to meet with them. If nothing else, we need to know their intentions. But I don’t like the idea of walking into an ambush.”

Aymer cleared his throat, delicate and wary. “Can I put the letter down?”

Gwaine gave him an unkind look. “What, you think he’ll shoot crossbow bolts from his eyes if you breathe too hard?”

“No,” Aymer snorted. But the way he did it clearly implied otherwise. He passed the letter to his right and tried to appear less discomfited.

Meliot shifted and eyed a few of the men nearest him. “We could invite them here. If they’re genuine, surely they’d come.”

“I wouldn’t,” Percival interjected. It was rare that he spoke at council, so of course, everyone looked at him. He shifted in his seat. “No offense, sire. But if I were them, I’d want the high ground. Just in case.”

Arthur nodded, but he still wasn’t all that willing to cede the point. Or the high ground, as it were.

“Perhaps,” Meliot suggested, his whole body tense, “if the reply came from Master Merlin. Someone they trust.”

Several of those at the table purposely acted as if Meliot hadn’t spoken at all.

“You forget, my lord,” Merlin told Meliot. Unlike many others at the table, he looked directly at the man as he spoke. “I’ve fought against magic almost as hard as you. They don’t have any more reason to trust me than Arthur.”

Arthur pressed his thumb against the seam of his lips, leaning his head down to reach since he kept his elbow perched on the arm of his chair. “But you’re like them. And you’ve said before that they claim some kind of connection with you.”

Merlin ignored that and asked, “How would we even get a message back to them? You can’t just send a runner in there; they might not send him back the same.”

Caradoc scoffed. “You think they’d enchant our messenger? Why, when they know you’re here, and would notice immediately?”

“I’m not actually that good,” Merlin mumbled as he tried to settle himself more comfortably in the chair.

Several of the knights grumbled their skepticism at that – the ones who had been in the hollow on Samhain.

Offhand, Arthur informed Merlin, “They sent the letter by raven. We can just send it back with their own bird.”

Merlin blinked a few times. “Where is the raven?”

“In the aviary,” Arthur snapped. “Where else would we put it?”

With obvious forbearance, Merlin told him, “Ravens in druid camps usually have a connection to their handler. They’re familiars. The handler can see through the bird’s eyes, listen through its ears…”

Leon finished the thought. “A spy.”

“Or a harmless scout,” Marwen interjected. “They’re probably as suspicious of us as we are of them.”

Lord Howel added, his voice grave, “Extending a false hand of peace is a ruse your father used, sire. I’m sure that many remember what came of accepting his overtures.”

Arthur grunted a reluctant acknowledgement of that and looked away.

Gwaine pulled an apple out of his pocket, followed it with a belt knife, and asked, “Do they say what they want from the meeting?” Then he stared at Meliot while he carved tiny slivers of the apple off to eat one at a time.

“Gwaine,” Arthur warned, motioning for Aymer to pass back the letter. “Access to the royal forests, I think it was, for him and his companions. He calls them ancestral lands, though, and places that belong to the old religion. I’m inclined to agree to it, but making a treaty with the druids won’t be easy if they have no central leader.”

Marwen quirked an eyebrow at Arthur. “With respect, sire, I think you’re sitting next to their central leader.”

Merlin scoffed something nasty under his breath, and then raised his voice to snipe, “I’ve told you, I don’t speak for them.”

With a cheeky smirk, Marwen replied, “Tell that to them.”

Merlin merely treated him to a baleful look, and faced the table in general instead of him.

Arthur sat forward and propped his elbows on the table. “We should invite this Alator to the castle. I want to make sure that we’re controlling the situation. Taking the necessary precautions. Merlin, what do you think?”

Merlin turned his head, but only far enough to look at Arthur’s ear. “About what?”

Exasperated, Arthur replied, “About inviting them to Camelot. Do you see any problem with it?”

“It’s not my place to say, sire.”

Arthur flared his nostrils and knuckled his forehead before ordering, “Everyone out. Not you.” Arthur held his arm out to prevent Merlin rising from his seat. “You, stay. Everyone else, leave.”

There was some hesitant shuffling before the scraping of chairs signaled obedience. Arthur glanced over to where Meliot ran into a wall of air that had nothing to do with magic, turned, and rounded the entire table to avoid passing Merlin. As if he thought Arthur might kill him for coming too close. He wasn’t entirely paranoid in his assumption, but other than Arthur eyeing him the whole time, and watching Gwaine avoid coming within a sword length’s of temptation of his own, nothing untoward happened.

Several different doors creaked and then thumped closed, and Arthur slumped back in his seat. “When I ask for your input, I expect you to give it.”

Merlin shifted in Arthur’s periphery, and then grunted as he jostled his shoulder.

“For gods’ sakes, Merlin.” Arthur leaned over and felt about his person until he located a rolled cloth tied to Merlin’s belt. Arthur liberated it, and then frowned when Merlin merely let him manhandle the sling over and around his chest to bind his arm against his ribs. “If you don’t keep the shoulder supported, you’ll just tear everything again, and it will never heal. I know; I’ve seen it before in young, idiot knights who think they’re invincible.” He knotted the end off and then tugged at bits of cloth until he was satisfied with the placement of everything. “They’re not.”

Merlin looked down at his trapped arm and twiddled his fingers where they hung out of the sling.

Arthur knocked himself back into his chair again and let his hands smear over his face before flopping them over the manchettes. “I have tried to be patient with you, but this has got to stop.” He rolled his head along the chair back and found Merlin leaning back in his seat, watching his lap. “Have I put too much on you? I know I expect a lot sometimes, and you’re still recovering. I can reassign – ”

“No!” Merlin appeared startled at his own vehemence, and then tried to relax again. “No, sire. It’s not too much; I’ll do better.”

Arthur felt his mouth drawing thin and pushed himself forward to the edge of his chair. He leaned into Merlin’s space on purpose and squeezed Merlin’s knee in what he sincerely hoped was a sympathetic gesture. “I am worried about you. All of us are.” At Merlin’s dubious look, Arthur relented. “Most of us. You barely speak to anyone, outside of necessity. You look thinner. Your mother won’t even accept a council seat because she’s afraid to upset you by making you see her. This isn’t like you.”

Merlin shook his head and offered Arthur an empty smile. “You don’t have to worry – ”

“ _Don’t say that to me!_ ” Arthur slammed his fist onto the table, and Merlin jerked back from him. Arthur repented of his temper immediately, but he didn’t take it back. Instead, he flung himself to his feet and paced around his chair as if the mere two feet of distance could convey the right perspective on the situation. “You know, I forget sometimes. Maybe you don’t fight with a sword, but you’ve been at war all the same.” Arthur didn’t like the heat to his tone, or the clipped manner in which the words fell from his lips, but he couldn’t do much to stop it when he felt as he did. “I’ve seen soldiers come back from long battles, and sometimes, they can’t adjust to peace again. Most of those men didn’t make it long after they came home. So do _not_ tell me to stop worrying about you.”

Merlin sniffed as if he meant to speak, and then didn’t.

Arthur sighed. “Is anyone bothering you? I know that there’s been tension since Samhain – if anyone is giving you a hard time, you can tell me. I’ll take care of it.”

Merlin slinked sideways in his chair, but only looked up as far as the edge of the table. “No, sire.”

“Not even Meliot?”

Merlin twitched away from nothing. “He’s not bothering me.”

Arthur closed his eyes and leaned against the back of his chair. “If I had known what it would do to you, I wouldn’t have made that speech.”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin finally croaked. “I don’t want you to take it back.”

At the sound of Merlin’s voice, pitched instead of deadened, Arthur slipped back into his seat, his elbows braced on his knees.

“You have no idea how grateful I am,” Merlin insisted. And he did sound genuine – of course he did, because Arthur knew what it meant to him to be free - to be able to be himself without worrying that someone might see. “I can never thank you enough.”

Arthur glared at him sidelong. “You don’t owe me thanks for doing what I should have done all along.” He really, really hated the dark, neat beard that now grew thick over Merlin’s jaw and lip, because it served to obscure the subtle tells that Arthur had learned to watch for over the years. He couldn’t catch Merlin’s eye, so he gave up after a half-hearted try. “What is going on with you, Merlin?”

Merlin shook his head, tiny wobbles that may have been little more than ticks. His cheeks rumpled where the beard didn’t cover them, and he shut his eyes.

“What am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know!” Merlin shook with the force of that, like a lyre string breaking, and then jutted his chin in the other direction as if to pretend he hadn’t snapped. He leveled his voice to explain, “If I advocate for magic, they’ll think I have undue influence over you.”

“That is the stupidest thing – ”

“Do not underestimate their fear.”

“Why don’t you stop overestimating it?” Arthur inhaled slowly to calm his bourgeoning temper. It would have been easier if Merlin started shouting too, but he was just as infuriatingly calm as he had been since Samhain. And he wasn’t even looking at Arthur; he kept his posture demure, and his eyes downcast. Arthur pressed his tongue against his teeth and then asserted, “You are on my council for a reason. No matter what you think, this isn’t an attempt for me to turn you into a model prince. I’m not grooming an heir. It’s not for show. You’re here because you have advised me well in the past, and your knowledge of magic is necessary to the functioning of my kingdom. It doesn’t do me any good if you withhold your opinions on it.”

Merlin licked his lips, his gaze flickering off in a succession of multiple different directions like watching fireflies in the trees.

“I want you to dine with me tonight, no excuses. And I expect you to have a recommendation on the druids by then.”

Merlin just shook his head at that and looked around as if he might find some excuse to escape Arthur’s attention.

To say that Merlin was frustrating him would be an understatement at this point; Arthur had endured months of this already. He sighed loudly and slid back in his chair. The sight of Merlin sitting there bent like that was tiring enough on its own, never mind the lack of affect or the unsatisfying, abbreviated answers that he gave to every question or comment directed his way. Almost against his will, Arthur’s eyes filmed over. He tipped his head back, face toward the ceiling, to hide the moisture that threatened there, the logical result of his own weariness and concern. “You said you wouldn’t leave me.”

Beside him, Merlin shifted. It sounded as if he prepared himself to speak, but as earlier, he failed to follow through.

“I hardly see you anymore. And yes, part of that is because you’re on light duties, but I don’t even know if you’re still tasting my food before it comes to me. And I'd be glad if you weren't because it's stupid for you to keep risking yourself like that, but you used to obsess over it. I have to chase you down if I want to talk to you outside of council sessions. How am I supposed to follow through on integrating magic, rewriting laws and judging disputes – making treaties! – if the one sorcerer I can trust won’t help me?”

“My judgement isn’t reliable when it comes to magic. I tried to stop you.”

“On Samhain?” When Arthur held his breath and looked over, Merlin was peering with unfocused eyes at the empty chairs on the other side of the table. “Of course, you did. Your judgement is overly cautious, and I know that about you. And right now, it’s what I need. I make rash decisions, especially when I’m irritated. You’re not here so that you can decide for me in matters of magic; you’re here to make me think about the things that can go wrong. I need your suspicions, Merlin – you know magic better than I do. You think of possibilities for it that I can’t imagine. I don’t have to do what you advise, and honestly, most of the time, I probably won’t because you’re ridiculous, and it’s like arguing with my father sometimes. But I can recognize the value in that.”

Merlin’s nose wrinkled as he made a face at the table. “Arsehole.”

“Yes, well, don’t think I missed the irony.” Arthur wished that there were wine nearby. Except if there were, Merlin might sneak some of it, and Arthur knew damn well that he thought no one had noticed his new habit. That was a whole other issue that Arthur didn’t have the energy to address just then. “I mean it, Merlin – I expect to see you at supper. If you don’t show, I’ll send guards to drag you to my table.”

“Yes, sire.”

Arthur shook his head in exasperation and stood up. “I’m done dealing with the council today. Is there somewhere else you need to be?”

Merlin flicked his head toward Arthur, and then ticked over a few more times as if trying to parse that for hidden meaning before he also shoved himself to his feet. “No. Do you need something?”

“Your company.” Arthur replied more plaintively than he intended.

Some light of interest or engagement on Merlin’s face flickered out as he nodded. “Of course, sire.”

Arthur merely looked at him, and he probably did so for too long because Merlin’s features shifted into uncertainty, and he kept darting his gaze away to avoid the prolonged eye contact. “I hardly want time spent with me to be a chore. If I have done something to offend you, at least have the decency to say so.” Arthur stepped forward, hand raised to touch, just briefly. The flare of hurt took him by surprise when Merlin visibly forced himself not to flinch. Arthur shrank back, his earlier irritation gone like a river bank in a flood. Haltingly, Arthur shook his head. “Never mind. I won’t be needing you until supper.” He backed away, tried to figure out if there were something else to say, and then just turned toward the door leading into the back halls of the castle.

As Arthur pulled open the heavy door at the far end of the room, Merlin made an odd sound. Arthur looked reflexively over his shoulder to find Merlin sinking heavily back into his chair, his face hidden within the dark halo of his hair, which had grown out in much the same way as the beard, in that it seemed to serve little other purpose than to obscure his features. The door handle slipped from Arthur’s fingers. He remained standing on the inside, view mostly blocked by columns, as the door swung shut again with a faint boom that echoed throughout the lonely room. Merlin breathed out harshly and braced his free hand against the edge of the table. Clearly believing that he was alone, Merlin moved that hand to his chest a moment later and bunched up the cloth in a fist against his sternum. His inhalations grated in a forced rhythm, loud and obvious in the cavernous hall.

Arthur stayed quiet to allow Merlin his privacy, but he had to open his mouth to keep the sound of his own breath from travelling. He had seen this too, before. In others, on occasion. And he wanted to kick himself for missing it in Merlin. The way the heart pounded long after the danger was past. How the body shook from the fatigue of a battle that ended months ago. Even the stolen wine and the isolation, the lack of words in conversation. Bland replies to avoid confrontation at council sessions, and flinching from the hand of a friend. Arthur should have known what exposure would do to him after seeing the way he fought not to bolt months ago, when confronted with questions about the deeds he had done with magic in the past.

Merlin gulped in a few breaths where he sat, and then dug his fingers into the knot that Arthur had tied in the shoulder sling binding Merlin’s arm in place. He grew far too frantic, far too quickly, when it wouldn’t immediately come off. At the thin whine that followed when his trembling fingers couldn’t loosen it, Arthur broke from his paralysis and hurried across the room. “Merlin. It’s alright.” Arthur took over getting the thing unwrapped to free Merlin’s arm. “I’ve got it. Just hang on.”

For a moment, Arthur had to fight to get his hands in place of Merlin’s on the fabric knots, and then Merlin seized at the arm of his chair instead. He went rigid as he forced himself calm while Arthur got the last of the sling unwrapped and tossed it aside.

Arthur pressed at Merlin’s chest to get a feel for his respiration and then cupped Merlin’s ears the way he had once before to focus him, in an alcove hidden from the courtyard while Merlin seemed ready to spin himself apart. Merlin flinched at each new touch, but didn't do anything else that made Arthur think his attention unwelcome. As Arthur sank to a knee in front of him, he enjoined Merlin, “Look at me.”

Thankfully, Merlin did as he was told and locked his gaze on Arthur’s face. “I’m sorry,” he puffed. “I’m – ”

“Don’t apologize,” Arthur soothed, though he was more worried than he could afford to admit just then. “You’re fine. Just breathe.”

Merlin let out a distressed hum, nostrils flared and pale, his eyes blown wide, but not alarmingly so. The air rushing past his lips sounded like a surge of tide water crashing up against the shore, heavy and eroding. He lifted his good arm and curled his fingers sharp over Arthur’s forearm. Arthur had to block him from doing the same with the other one, lest he tear the healing shoulder joint.

From the corner of his eye, Arthur noticed George slip into the room via one of the servant doors, freeze, and then silently back out of sight again with a nod to Arthur. He wondered how much of this George had been privy to over the past three months, and why on earth Arthur ever agreed _not_ to require him to report back on Merlin’s wellbeing.

Rather than betray their unintended audience, Arthur kept his eyes carefully trained on Merlin’s and took exaggerated, deep breaths in the hopes that Merlin would unconsciously match him. As soon as he did, though, Merlin’s face seemed to crumple as he ducked his head to hide the stress-induced tears that welled up in the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry. It’ll stop. You don’t have to stay.”

“Why the hell would I leave you like this?” Arthur demanded. “Is this why you hide all the time? To keep this from me?”

“No. A little. I didn’t want you to know,” he breathed, shoving himself deeper into his chair. A moment later, though, he folded forward into Arthur’s shoulder. “It’s stupid. There’s nothing wrong.”

Arthur fumbled to accommodate him and nearly grabbed at the bad shoulder in the process. He ended up grasping Merlin’s bicep on that side instead, and covered the crown of Merlin’s head with his other hand. It was on the tip of Arthur’s tongue to demand if Merlin really thought that Arthur would think less of him for this, but he could understand all too well. _Girl’s petticoat_ and _do you need your comfort blanket_ , and _that’s because you’re a coward, Merlin._ All things that Arthur had told him before, not all of them at a time when they could have been taken in friendly jest. _Stop being so bloody useless._

“There’s no shame here,” Arthur murmured. “I just wish you had told me. I would have accommodated you.”

Merlin rocked his forehead back and forth on Arthur’s shoulder. “You’re the king,” he said, winded. As if Arthur needed a reminder. “You shouldn’t have to.”

“And I publicly claimed you as a brother. That comes with perks, you know.”

Merlin snorted a sudden laugh into Arthur’s tunic. “This is a perk? I didn't see cuddles in my charter.”

It was only relief that made Arthur smile too. He hadn’t heard Merlin joke around for weeks, at least, as he withdrew farther from everyone. “This is normal,” Arthur tried to insist. “Sometimes it’s harder after you’re done fighting – after you can let down your guard. And sometimes, that’s more terrifying than war, whether it seemed like you were in one or not.”

“You have more important things to worry about,” Merlin objected.

“Let me decide what’s important to me. I’ve missed you.”

Merlin sagged a bit against him and nodded.

“You’re exhausted.” Arthur settled onto his heel, one knee still raised as a prop for Merlin’s injured arm.

“I don’t sleep well,” Merlin confessed into the cradle of their bodies. “It’s too quiet without Gaius snoring all night. And it’s clean. George keeps it too clean.”

“You’re still welcome in my chambers. That hasn’t changed.”

The muscles in Merlin’s back tightened under Arthur’s hands, but at least he didn’t object to the propriety of it the way he used to. Instead, he whispered to himself for a moment, words too low and indistinct for Arthur to hear, and then said, “I don’t want to disturb you.”

“I’ll take the disturbance over this.” Arthur shut his eyes long enough to remind himself of the way Merlin smelled, however rare the opportunity he’d had to know it. Storms and herbs, damp wool, and a long morning without a wash. Arnica paste, too. Without conscious volition, Arthur turned his nose in against Merlin’s temple. They hadn't shared a bed at all since Samhain. They hadn't even shared a meal since then. “You died, Merlin. Do you think it didn’t affect me too? I’d feel better, having you near. I don’t sleep well alone either.”

Merlin let go of Arthur’s arm and wormed his hand in to scrub at his face where Arthur wouldn’t be able to actually see him do it. “This shouldn’t be so hard. I was meant for this.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “I still think your destiny thing is half rubbish. Men shouldn’t be made to purpose like a pair of trousers.”

“Like you were made to be king?” Merlin pulled away and sank back against the chair with a wince for his jostled shoulder. “We don’t always have a choice.”

Arthur grimaced and blew out an aggravated breath. They’d had this argument before, and Arthur didn’t like the reminder of some of the things that Merlin had said at the well spring. Mostly because he wasn't entirely sure that Merlin didn't still feel that way, as if he might be a curse on the people he met. “That’s crap, and you know it.” He pushed himself to his feet and looked down at Merlin peering up at him from tired eyes. “I was going to drag you out for a horseback ride before the snow starts sticking, but you look like a nap in front of the fire would do you more good.”

Merlin let his eyes wander around the perimeter of Arthur’s body, perhaps gazing at things that weren’t meant for the eyes alone to see, and then smiled. “I’d like a ride, actually. I haven’t been out much lately, except for making deliveries or buying supplies. And George is always hovering for that. He’s getting complacent.”

Arthur grinned. “You know if you shake him off now, he’ll only be worse by the time he finds you again.”

“It builds character.” Merlin let his teeth show as his smile widened. “Can’t have him thinking his job is easy. He’ll slip up.”

It took all the willpower that Arthur had just then not to betray George’s presence on the other side of the room, carefully hidden behind a pillar. “All right. Joy riding, it is.” He held a hand down for Merlin to pull himself up, and then frowned at the arm that Merlin kept carefully limp at his side. “You really should keep that bound for a while longer.”

Merlin looked down at his dangling fingers and took a quick breath before nodding. “Just while we’re riding. So I don’t jostle it too much.”

Arthur smiled and absently tucked a few tufts of hair behind Merlin’s ear. He knew it was too intimate a gesture, but they were mostly alone here. And George wouldn’t say anything about it. “An acceptable compromise.” He watched Merlin’s face soften to an echo of those secret looks that Arthur used to catch him out at in odd moments. Arthur didn’t fool himself into thinking that everything would be sanguine now, but it helped, seeing him look like that again. “Come along then, little bird brain. The weather won’t hold for long.”

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Merlin prodded his horse along a little faster, cocked his head, and then glared at Arthur. “You told him.”

“I did no such thing,” Arthur countered. He twisted in the saddle to catch sight of George through the light flurry of fine snowflakes, trying to make his poor old bay horse go fast enough to catch up with them. “He needs to learn to sit a saddle properly.”

“Why? If he’s bruised enough, he might stay home next time.”

Arthur gave Merlin a fond look. “You really are a cranky old thing.”

Merlin grumbled to himself without otherwise deigning to acknowledge that.

They let their horses amble about, hooves crunching on the frozen ground, though Arthur realized at some point that he was guiding them in the general direction of the hill where Guinevere’s grave stood. Merlin must have known that as well, but he didn’t say anything until they could see the top of the standing stone perched on the hillside, rising above the greenery. The footpath was worn deep by the passing of many feet in the year and half since her death. Snow dusted the longer blades of grass at the edges, but most of the ground was still bare.

“The people must visit her a lot,” Arthur remarked. He stopped his horse and gazed up the hillside. “Have you been here at all?”

Merlin shook his head, his face more somber than Arthur’s felt. “Not since we put her there.”

It was odd turn of phrase, and Arthur tipped his head back down to look at him. “Neither have I.” After hesitating for a while, during which Merlin merely stared blankly off to one side, away from Guinevere, Arthur offered, “You don’t have to come all the way up with me. You could stay here with the horses.”

Merlin swiveled his head gradually, as if returning from a great distance. His eyes wandered around and landed on Arthur’s face more by coincidence than any seeming design. “No. I should go too, if you are. It’s just a stone.”

Arthur swallowed and looked away as he nodded. Yes, it was. Just a rock on a hillside, and some bones beneath, all wrapped up in a pretty dress that had likely mouldered by now. Arthur spurred his horse forward, and after a long moment, Merlin followed at a distance until the terrain grew too rocky to safely ride without risk of one of the horses rolling an ankle. Arthur waited for Merlin to safely dismount, awkward because of his bound arm, and then looped both sets of reigns over a branch near some grass that would be suitable for them to graze. Out in the field, Arthur could see George attempting to steer his horse away from some bit of sweetgrass or something similar. Suffice it to say, he wasn’t likely to interrupt them.

The wind blew colder atop the hill than it had in the field. Arthur wrapped his cloak around himself and stepped up to the standing stone erected over Guinevere’s grave. It was easily taller than Arthur, and carved with what Arthur only now recognized as symbols of the old religion. He had thought them little more than fanciful designs the first and only other time he’d looked at it. The sound of Merlin’s footsteps ceased off to one side, well beyond Arthur’s reach. Then Merlin veered from the path and leaned over to scoop up a handful of what looked like scrub brush until Arthur caught the faint amber glow of his eyes. The bunch of dying grass bloomed green with tiny yellow flowers as Merlin walked back and held them out for Arthur to take.

Arthur accepted them, but he also asked, “Don’t you want to give them to her?”

Merlin shook his head and backed away again, never once actually looking at the stone marker.

Arthur didn’t push it. Instead, he anchored the stems in a narrow gap between the upright stone and the base it sat upon, so that the wind wouldn’t bear them away. "I used to think picking flowers was beneath me." He crouched on the balls of his feet and just looked at the ground for a while, his thoughts empty and rooted in the present, cold moment. The wind alone made a sound like fabric flapping violently from the ramparts as it whipped through the winter grass and past barren trees hanging precariously onto craggy bits of the hillside. “Do you still hear her?”

It didn’t seem as if Merlin heard him from where he stood mostly faced away into the oncoming wind. He had tipped his chin up, and his hair blew back to expose his sharp features to the wan light of an overcast sky. He looked more gaunt than Arthur liked - sallow cheeks and his jawline sharp. A beat late, Merlin replied, “No. Not since I woke up.”

Arthur knew what he meant by that – the three days that Merlin had lain unconscious after Samhain. “Same here,” he admitted. It left him feeling sad, but the brutal and bloody edge of grief wasn’t there anymore. And the way that he missed her seemed different now – just a hollow ache, always there within his ribcage where he forgot about it now and then. “I think she’s gone now.”

Merlin swallowed hard enough that Arthur could see it catch in his throat as he bowed his head, still facing away from the stone.

With a grunt of effort for knees that didn’t like the cold anymore – and when had he gotten that old, anyway? – Arthur pushed himself upright and shook the leaf litter from his cloak. He picked his way over the uneven ground until he could slap a hand down on Merlin’s good shoulder. “It’s none of my business,” Arthur started.

“Don’t,” Merlin warned.

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say,” Arthur complained, but it lacked bite.

Merlin threw him an unimpressed glance, and then twisted his face away again. “Pretty sure anything that starts like that isn’t going to be something I want to hear.”

Arthur weaved his head from side to side in ambiguous agreement with the validity of Merlin’s point. “You say all kinds of things I don’t want to hear.” He waited for Merlin to retort, but as was growing increasingly more normal, Merlin seemed disinclined to engage with Arthur beyond the surface necessities. After a moment spent second-guessing himself, Arthur angled himself to face the same direction as Merlin and said, “I know you’re angry with your mother – ”

“I’m not angry,” Merlin interjected softly. He was peering down at the toe of his boot that he seemed to be digging into the ground as a distraction. New boots, Arthur noticed, though still plain and more like a servant's than a noble's. 

“Betrayed, then,” Arthur amended. “Being up here…” He flapped his hand at the lonely landscape that gravesites inevitably became. “If Guinevere has taught us anything, it should be that we can’t take time for granted. Your mother isn’t young anymore. And maybe I’m biased because I never had a mother of my own, but I don’t want you to regret your silence one day. I don’t believe that her secrets were meant to hurt you, and I know that she regrets them now.”

Merlin wobbled his head, a feeble denial that probably fought against his need to make it, and refused to look up.

“Think about it,” Arthur concluded. “That’s all I ask.”

“I do think about it,” Merlin mumbled.

“She couldn’t have known enough to matter, could she?”

Merlin sighed, aggrieved but removed from it, to judge by the feinting lines of his face. “When we were standing at Will’s pyre, she called you and I two sides of the same coin. The only other place I heard that was from the dragon.” He slanted his eyes to Arthur’s. “She knew more than she’s saying.”

Arthur blinked at him once, languid and deliberate. “Then ask her about it.”

“I don’t want to,” Merlin replied. He pressed his lips into a papery line and turned his head away again. “If she knew enough to say that, then she could have let me make my own way. But she didn’t. She sent me here, and she knew what would happen if she did. I don’t want to know why.”

“I see.” Arthur let his gaze fall away too and swallowed the sickly taste in his mouth. “Do you really regret this life so much? All the good you’ve done?” Before Merlin could deny that and denigrate himself, as he typically did, Arthur pressed on. “Knowing me? Because I know for a fact, I’d be a tyrant without you. And I wouldn’t even know where my mistakes were.”

Merlin tried to smile, but it came off wrong. “You give yourself too little credit.”

“No,” Arthur countered. “I don’t.” He squeezed the stiff shoulder tightening up beneath his hand. “I said it once before, but it bears repeating. I’ll let you go, if that’s what you want for your life. You can be someone else; I won’t stop you, if that’s what you need to be happy.”

The edges of Merlin’s face pinched inward as he shook his head. “Arthur…”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do.” Merlin blew a quick breath through his nostrils. “It wouldn’t help anything if I left. I’d still be the same person. I’d still _know_.” He looked down, made a face at his boots, and then shifted his gaze to Arthur’s boots instead. “I’d miss you. And I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you because I wasn’t here.”

Carefully, Arthur remarked, “You’re not really here now. Not the way you used to be.”

“I’m trying,” Merlin replied in kind.

Arthur nodded. “Just remember you’re not alone for that. Hm?”

Merlin looked up, and finally, he seemed present there with Arthur as he hadn’t been for a long time. “I’ll remember.”

“Good.” Arthur squeezed his shoulder again and then let go. There were specks of dusty snow spattering Merlin’s cloak as the afternoon darkened. “Come on. It’s late, and the storm’s coming.”

Merlin gazed at him a few heartbeats longer, soft and yearning, as if Arthur weren’t actually there anymore in front of him. Then his eyes flickered out to dance around the edges of Arthur’s person, seeing things that didn't touch on the eyes. “The darkness gathers.”

Arthur drew back a few inches, because it seemed an odd thing to say, even if the sun _was_ setting. Rather than dwell on that, Arthur merely repeated, “Come on. You promised me dinner.”

Whatever strangeness had gathered in Merlin’s face faded, and he tipped his head sarcastically to one side. “No, I didn’t. You threatened to send guards to drag me to your table.”

Arthur let one cheek crinkle. “Shut up, Merlin. You can’t contradict your king.” He took that moment to break the tension of their relative positions, and started picking his way back down the hillside.

“Oh, right,” Merlin drawled behind him. He kicked some pebbles loose as he followed, and Arthur watched them skitter down the path past him. “The king. I forgot that’s what you are.”

Merlin himself skittered past next, and Arthur smiled at him, indulgent. “I think we’ll need to rescue George.” Arthur picked up the pace and spared a glance for where George stood halfway across the field, pulling on the reigns of his horse and, from the looks of things, threatening it if it didn’t stop grazing. “Did you do something to his horse?”

Merlin grinned over his shoulder. “That would be a gross misuse of magic, sire.”

“You don’t fool me,” Arthur replied, laughing. He sped up to overtake Merlin, and Merlin merely bolted. “Hey! That’s cheating!”

“Don’t be a rotten egg!” Merlin called back as he raced for the horses.

“ _Merlin_!”

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Arthur tapped his spoon against his tankard – which had nothing but water in it – and glared at the empty chair to his right. Maybe hosting a single guest in the king’s dining hall was a bit overboard, but Guinevere had redecorated it after Arthur took the throne, and he liked the way the room still felt like her, bright and welcoming. With a hard sigh, Arthur tossed the spoon onto the table and stood up. As he stalked to the door, he ordered the servant tending the table, “Leave everything here. Keep it warm.”

As much as Arthur threatened to send guards after Merlin if he didn’t show, he had declared Merlin’s rank at court, and he couldn’t just drag a prince around his castle on a whim. Plus, Arthur knew that it would help exactly nothing to use force, and he was more worried than angry at this point. He’d thought that they parted at the stables on a good note.

“Merlin!” Arthur shoved through the partially-open infirmary door without pausing to consider knocking. “Did you forget what time it is again?” He tripped back a step as soon as he registered the scene, and then hurried over to where George knelt on the floor trying to keep Merlin’s injured arm steady while also cradling his head so that he didn’t strike it on anything. “Here, let me.” Arthur slipped his arm under Merlin’s skull as a cushion against the floor as he shook so that George could hold his arm against his chest more securely. “What happened?”

“I don’t know, sire.” George appeared as distressed as he ever did, which was not much, but even his veneer cracked a bit as he glanced over at the rolling whites of Merlin’s eyes. “I found him like this. He seemed fine before I left.”

Arthur noticed a pile of wood scattered across the floor where George had presumably dropped it upon entering, and then had to focus on holding Merlin’s head without restricting the convulsions and injuring him further. “I thought this was getting better.”

“It was, sire.” George actually sounded impatient, which only betrayed that his words weren’t meant as empty, professional platitudes.

Arthur acknowledged that and grimaced at the thin line of blood mixed with saliva that smeared over Merlin’s cheek and onto Arthur’s sleeve. “He’s bitten something.” Arthur kept his gaze on his own knees as much as he could, and listened to Merlin breathe in shuddering bursts like frost bite. Arthur felt like an idiot for growing complacent about this; it punched him in the stomach, seeing it again, stark in the present. Merlin snagged at Arthur’s sleeve with the hand that George was holding, and Arthur stared at the unnatural rictus of his knuckles – the way the tendons stood out from his skin. When he noticed George looking there as well, Arthur glanced up at him. “You haven’t seen this before, have you.”

George shook his head and tore his eyes away, his mouth set in a grim line.

“It’s easing up,” Arthur assured him. He used his free hand to untangle Merlin’s fingers from his cuff, but it was almost worse to then hold a hand with stiff fingers poking out of his grasp like a collection of twigs. He maintained his grip anyway, even as Merlin jerked and nearly pulled free in the mindlessness of it.

“This is horrible,” George croaked.

Arthur merely wobbled his head a bit and told him, “Don’t think on it too much.”

The worst of the shaking seemed to bleed free a moment later, and Arthur watched Merlin’s fingers curl in toward his palm. His breathing steadied, though it still came too rapid for comfort, and his throat clicked a few times as his head tipped toward his chest, his cheek smearing over Arthur’s wrist. He continued to shiver for a while, a fine hum of vibration in overtaxed limbs before his spine unwound as well. He went limp soon after which, though disturbing in itself, made Arthur sigh in relief.

George rocked forward on his knees and seemed to force himself to loosen his grip on Merlin’s arm. Neither of them said anything for a long moment, and then George began some kind of tidying routine as if it were the only thing he could focus on: a cloth to wipe the saliva and blood from Merlin’s mouth and beard, a fastidious straightening of Merlin’s clothes… When he reached Merlin’s belt, he stopped and breathed, “Oh.” He looked away quickly, swallowed, and then faintly remarked, “I’ll fetch something clean.”

Arthur gave him a sympathetic look. “Go on. I’ve got him for now.”

“Yes.” George appeared to have forgotten that he was speaking with a royal, because he completely omitted the formal address to which he normally seemed married. He wobbled up onto his feet, made a spastic attempt to brush off his trousers, and then skittered away to find fresh clothing.

Arthur looked down at the head resting in the crook of his elbow and murmured, “You scared George.” Never mind Arthur himself. He brushed at the hair covering Merlin’s forehead, and then ran his thumb along the curve of a dark eyebrow. Merlin’s eyes remained fixed half-open, blue like the sea with a tiny black dot in the center. His throat worked as he swallowed, thick and slow. Arthur just watched him puff out short, tiny breaths, and hated the slack lines of his face, as if Merlin himself weren’t there in it.

“Wool,” George announced from across the room. He hurried back over to Arthur with a water basin as well, more composed now that he had a task to see to. “The chill is rather sharp tonight. These should provide plenty of warmth.” He turned suddenly to look straight at Arthur, as if just realizing that he was there. “I can manage, sire.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Arthur replied. “You’re a head shorter than him; there’s no way you can lift him alone. And besides, he’ll be pissed when he realizes. He’s less likely to start yelling at me than you.”

George blinked, looked at Merlin curled up like a comma on the floor, and then nodded without reminding Arthur that he was the king, and that this might be servants’ work.

Between them, they got everything sorted out quickly. Arthur stayed on the floor afterwards while George set things aside for laundering, stacked the wood he had dropped, stoked the fire, and then made up the bed behind the privacy screen that Arthur was pretty sure George had stolen from one of the guest rooms in Arthur’s wing of the castle. Arthur knew that Merlin took over Gaius’s bed with its nicer mattress, rather than keeping quarters in the tower room anymore, but he did wonder if George had been allowed to move his things up there, or if Merlin kicked him out to fend for himself in the general servants’ quarters near the kitchens every night. Arthur knew for a fact that George didn’t actually live with Alder, his father, in the castle. They seemed to enjoy a strained relationship at best. And since George never did claim the servant’s annex to Arthur’s chamber, he had to wonder where the man spent his nights and free time.

Merlin shifted where Arthur had propped him against his chest, and fumbled a hand up to his mouth with a wince. He sort of gurgled something that sounded like, “Ow,” and then prodded at his cheek.

“You bit yourself,” Arthur told him. He brushed Merlin’s hand away from his face, and then stopped him picking at the cloth that once again bound his arm in place against his ribs. “I know you don’t like it, but you’re going to make it worse.”

Merlin huffed, blinked at the fire, and then burbled, “I’m late.”

“Yes, you were late,” Arthur agreed. “I had to come find you.”

“You?” Merlin cast a bleary look around the room and nearly toppled off of Arthur’s chest when he tried to sit up.

“Easy,” Arthur cautioned. He pushed Merlin forward and then held him so that he didn’t just tip over onto his side on the floor.

George appeared in Arthur’s periphery, and his figure seemed to unwind as he saw that Merlin was awake. “Ah, Master Merlin. I’ve put a kettle on for you.” He hurried off to the sideboard and started rearranging the cups there for tea.

Merlin watched him for a moment, weaving where he sat, and then twisted around like a puppet missing a string to make wide eyes at Arthur as if he could see better if he only lifted his lids far enough.

Arthur let the corner of his mouth crack and turn up. “Hi.”

Still a bit out of it, Merlin mirrored his expression. “Arthur!”

“I certainly hope so.” Arthur grinned outright because Merlin just looked so delighted to find him there, like discovering a treasure at the back of an old cupboard. “Tell me where we are.”

Merlin’s smile went soft as his eyes tracked an irregular down to Arthur’s chest. He poked at the laces of Arthur’s tunic, and then tucked his chin to poke at his own for a moment. He seemed to startle after that, and reared back. “Supper.”

George turned from his place near the wall and frowned, but he didn’t voice his obvious concern.

“It’s getting cold, yes.” Arthur twiddled his fingers near Merlin’s face to reclaim his wandering attention. “I need you to tell me where you are.”

Merlin crinkled his nose and peered up into the rafters for a moment. “It’s burning.”

George glanced at the kettle, and then the fire before informing him, “Nothing is burning that shouldn’t, my lord.”

“Whole field is,” Merlin slurred, waving his hand at the table where he prepared medicines.

Arthur blinked at him, confused. “What field?”

“Camlann,” Merlin snapped, as if Arthur were the one making no sense.

“That’s a three-day ride from here.” Arthur leaned sideways when Merlin did, so that he could stay in his line of vision. “Look at me.”

Merlin dropped his forehead into his palm and then scrubbed it over his brow. “I’m late.”

“Yes,” Arthur replied carefully. “For supper. Stop that.” He plucked Merlin’s hand away from where he had graduated to digging at his hair. “On me, Merlin.” Arthur waved his hand in Merlin’s face again, and it seemed that this time when Merlin looked at him, he could actually see Arthur. “Where are we?”

Merlin started to shake his head, and Arthur could actually see his pupils wax back to their normal size for the low light. “Home. The castle?”

Arthur let out a breath and nodded. “What’s it called?”

“Camelot.” Merlin looked around as if just now noticing the room. He blinked at George standing on the other side of the table. “You’re back?”

“I…brought firewood, my lord.” George stepped around the table to nod at the stack near the hearth.

“When?” Merlin braced his hand abruptly against Arthur’s knee and took a few exaggerated breaths, as if he might pass out. “I feel funny.”

It was as Arthur watched him purposely slow and deepen his breathing that he realized that Merlin hadn’t put together what happened yet. “You had a fit,” he explained. “George found you on the floor.”

“I, um…” Merlin swallowed what looked like nausea, and then raised his good arm to sketch an irregular outline in the air between them, which he then watched from the corner of his eye. “I’m…seeing things.”

Arthur furrowed his brow and helped Merlin stay mostly upright. “What, your quarters? I see those too; we’re in them.”

“No,” Merlin replied, voice thick like his tongue was too big. He shook his head as if there were water in his ear. A distressed mewl made its way from his throat, and he squeezed his eyes shut. “The bear. They’re killing the bear.”

Arthur reached out and dragged Merlin’s hand away from where he was rubbing the heel of his palm too hard into his eye socket, as if he could mash out the things he saw the way cook mashed boiled pears through a strainer. “Merlin? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Stop!” Merlin yelled abruptly. Then he whispered, spitting and harsh, “Let the lake have him. Let the lake have him. Let – ”

Arthur struggled to stop Merlin grabbing at his hair, or digging at his eye again, but he at least recognized it now, what he was talking about – the things that didn’t happen. “Merlin. I’m not in the lake, remember? No one stabbed me. Mordred is dead.”

It was so sudden, the way Merlin shot forward until his nose nearly touched Arthur’s, his eyes clear and rimmed in red, and full of something that didn’t look like Merlin at all, amber and fae. “Even as Camelot flowers, the seeds of her destruction are sewn. As the great horn sounds a cold dawn at Camlann, the bear will meet his end. Nine score hundred men attack, and make mockery of the four hundred who return to wash their shirts of blood and tell disastrous tales to their wives.”

Arthur worked his jaw in silence, taken aback.

“Let not Dyfedd tremble when the men of Albion come together in council, in a single party, of one mind with the Mercian firebrands. They will repay sevenfold the value of what they have done.”

Arthur blinked several times in rapid succession, uneasy and breathing hard as Merlin stared at him from a hair’s breadth away. “Merlin?”

Merlin blinked, quick and sharp like a lizard. Nothing moved in the room, not even time, as far as Arthur could tell. “Fall by the lake,” Merlin whispered, close and private with the intensity. It might have been an order, or a warning – it was impossible to tell. “Let them take you.”

“Take me?” Arthur breathed back in like kind. “Take me where?”

“Away from him.” Merlin shuddered hard and swayed back forcefully enough that Arthur caught at him without thinking, to cushion the fall.

Thankfully, George did the same, because Merlin was dead weight at that point, and Arthur nearly fumbled his grip. Together, they gently laid Merlin out, and then Arthur patted a slack, scruffy cheek, at first softly, but then harder when it prompted no reaction. “Merlin? Merlin!”

Merlin didn’t stir, and his skin felt clammy. Arthur motioned to George to help him, and they managed to carry him over to the bed without too much fuss. Neither of them knew what to do once they settled him there, however, and Arthur gradually sank down to sit on the edge of the cot near Merlin’s hip.

George stepped away after that, and then returned with a steaming cup of hot tea. “I would offer you ale, sire, but I have taken care not to store any here.”

Arthur straightened with the inflation of his lungs, and took the cup. “Thank you, George.” He rested the tea on his knee and went back to watching Merlin sleep, expressionless.

“You are the bear,” George ventured softly from behind him. “Are you not, sire?”

Arthur swallowed and flickered his eyes off to the side even though it wasn’t far enough to touch on George where he stood, audibly nervous. “Yes,” Arthur replied, because it wasn’t any secret, what his name meant. It was just that most people focused on Pendragon, rather than his informal name. “Yes, I am.”

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **reference made to prophecies from S5E10 “The Kindness of Strangers” and the Welsh prophetic poem Armes Prydein (c. 940 AD/CE)


	3. Chapter 3

_Arthur stared at the raven, then down at his bleeding finger. “You’re a very rude bird. Why do you smell like biscuits?”_

“Hello?”

_“I said hello already!" Arthur told it. "I only wanted you to take a note back.” He frowned and held up a scroll that was easily as thick as Arthur’s arm. “Isn’t that what you’re for?”_

“Oy!” _the raven cawed_. “Dollop head.” _Then it thumped him on the head with its beak._

Arthur snorted awake the way that hillsides bury villages in mud in the rainy season. “I’m reading.” He blinked around the dim infirmary and smacked his lips. “Ugh.” With a grimace, Arthur nearly scrubbed his fingers over his tongue, but stopped himself in time. “Tea fur.”

A face edged sideways into Arthur’s periphery. “We’ve been over this,” Merlin said, lowering his hand. “You can’t be reading. You haven’t got any soup.”

“What?” Arthur leaned away as he turned so that he wouldn't smack his own face into Merlin’s. "Did you just hit me?"

“Barely. The chicken’s nice - you should have some.”

Arthur shook his head, blinked a few times, and then noticed the platters arranged in close quarters on Merlin’s worktable. There was a nice little rounded clearing where Arthur’s head had been. “Oh.”

“George apologized to the poor maid you left in there, by the way.” Merlin shuffled around him with care for where he placed his feet in that particular way people do when the room spins just enough to notice. Arthur stared, bleary with his thoughts still wrapped in cotton, and watched Merlin run his hand over the stool as a guide before lowering himself down on it. “She was in tears. Even kept it all warm, like you ordered.”

“Damn.” Arthur rubbed his hand over his face in an effort to get rid of the sleepy cobwebs lingering there. “I forgot all about her.”

Merlin plucked a few shelled walnuts from a pretty bowl and didn’t look at Arthur. “She’s been running plates back and forth from the kitchens for hours.”

“I’ll apologize,” Arthur assured him, since that was clearly his angle at the moment.

“You’ll give her some extra coin and a few days off too, if you know what’s good for you.” Merlin crunched one of the walnuts and then tongued the mash into his cheek to add, “The only reason Cook isn’t screaming at you already is she can’t find you.”

Arthur groaned and thunked his head down onto his arms on the table. “All the coins,” he mumbled, carding his fingers through his own hair. Once it felt suitably enough disordered to sooth him, Arthur rolled his head sideways to free up an eye, then used it to stare at Merlin. “Are you alright? How long have you been awake?”

Merlin prodded his tongue at the inside of his cheek, swallowed the walnuts, and then chirped, “Long enough to hear you cawing like a demented bird in your sleep.”

Arthur frowned. "That didn't happen."

"Oh, my mistake then." Merlin glanced up as George budged the door open, arms laden with yet more of the spoils of Arthur’s private dining hall, and pulled a face at him. “Please tell me that’s the last of it.”

George lowered the platter carefully onto the last clear part of the table, right in front of Arthur. Then he looked at Merlin and obediently said, “That is the last of it, my lord.”

Arthur slanted his gaze sideways over the mess of food. “Is that a lie, George?”

“Yes, sire. It is.” George gave them both a curt bow, eyed Merlin critically as if assessing his state, and then spun off to, presumably, finish clearing the dining hall. The door clunked hard in his wake, then bounced a few inches open again.

“He’s not happy with you,” Merlin informed Arthur unnecessarily.

“Cook has been taking her anger out on him, I assume.” Arthur sighed.

Merlin shrugged. “I think it’s more the crying maid bit. He had to hug her. Got his vest wet. There will have been snot.”

Arthur snorted into a platter of ham.

“He’s very fastidious, if you haven’t noticed.”

“He was also worried about you. I think you scared him a bit.” Arthur sat up and reached over to sort of palm the side of Merlin’s neck – just enough to both touch, and shut him up. He probably looked like a fond sot at that moment, but they were alone, so it was alright. “Tell me the truth, Merlin. Has this been a regular occurrence since Samhain? And don’t pretend you’re an idiot; you know I’m not talking about George or supper.”

Merlin shut his mouth, regrouped, and then shook his head. “No. But a few times a year… That would be normal.”

“Good.” Arthur shoved his head just to be a prat, and Merlin gave him the side eye. “Eat," Arthur exhorted. "If we’re going to be in trouble with Cook _and_ George, we deserve to have full stomachs.”

“There’s no _we_ to this.” Merlin reached over Arthur to steal a piece of bread.

Arthur feigned outrage. “What, you’ll stand with me against entire armies and all the evils of dark magic, but not Cook?”

“You know Cook,” Merlin informed him haughtily. “I have to draw the line somewhere. Self-preservation and all.”

Arthur snuffed in mock abandonment. “Traitor.” He eyeballed Merlin for a bit, just watching him chew.

Eventually, Merlin noticed the prolonged gazing and peered down his nose. “What?” He picked at his tunic, examined his sleeve, and then frowned at Arthur. “I’ve got something on my face, haven’t I.”

Even though he knew it might ruin the mood, Arthur asked, “The fits – you’ve been taking precautions? Following Hubert’s advice?”

“I haven’t got something on my face?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Other than that badger’s hide you call a beard?”

“I happen to like my beard. It’s warm.”

“ _Mer_ lin. Stop trying to distract me.”

Merlin blew air through his teeth in annoyance. “What do I need Hubert’s advice for? I am actually a physician too. Even you say so.”

“Yes, and you like to pretend you can't be bothered to worry about your own health, so I am more inclined to trust Hubert on that.”

“Hubert’s advice on my health comes entirely from feeding strange plant extracts to dogs.”

“Be nice to the man; he saved your arm.”

In a reaction reminiscent of old Dragoon, Merlin wrinkled his mouth and gave a dismissive snort that fluffed up his short, neat beard with mock ire. Then he set his half-eaten bread aside and tugged a bit at the cloth binding his arm against his ribs before holding his free hand out, palm up towards Arthur. “ _Brynewelm flēot_.” A sharp burst of flame erupted in the air above Merlin’s palm, burned merrily for a few heartbeats, and then puttered out. “I’ve been…um...practicing more. Alone. And using it more in general. So it has someplace to go.”

“That’s good,” Arthur acknowledged. He only realized that he was grinning and staring expectantly after Merlin retracted his hand. Self-conscious, Arthur cleared his throat and tried to hide his disappointment that Merlin didn’t seem inclined to show off more.

Merlin ruffled his shoulders and cast a furtive look around. It was probably habit to fear being seen at overt magic; such mannerisms may never entirely leave him, but it was far better than three months ago. “Do you want to see more?”

Arthur stopped chewing as Merlin said that, and blinked at him. “More magic?”

It was endearing, the way Merlin nodded without looking up, so desperately nervous at offering that. And so hopeful.

“Yes,” Arthur said simply. He might not understand magic, or the experience of having it, but he was aware that this was the first time Merlin had ever asked him like this. It meant something. “Yes, I do. If you really want to show me. You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Merlin mumbled toward his hands as he wrung them in his lap. He snuck a glance at Arthur, just a beat before he must have thought not to risk looking straight on. It was such a shy thing. “I’ve always wanted to.”

Arthur smiled, overly fond and just…touched, in an odd way. He’d seen Merlin do magic absently, or when needs must, especially over the course of the past three months - just perfunctory little things. It had never seemed so personal before. Like a gift. “Then please. Show me.”

Merlin let a cautious smile spread out over his face and darted his gaze up to Arthur’s before flicking it over the table. “ _Rǽdan hlāf géatan._ ” The piece of bread that Merlin had set aside tipped over itself and balanced precariously on the narrow spout of a small bottle of flavoring oil. It then squished through the little opening as Merlin startled and exclaimed, “No, wait – ”

Arthur burst out laughing at the look on Merlin’s face as he uselessly fluttered his hands at the puff of bread crumbs that sprayed all around the little bottle.

“I meant to do that.” Merlin was convincing exactly no one, and from his sheepish smile, he knew it.

Arthur snagged the bottle and tipped it upside down, still snickering. Oil and glops of bread fell out in a splatter over the chicken. “Oh, yes,” Arthur told him. “A very important skill to have. Mangling bread.”

Merlin reached over to take the bottle from him and then frowned at the bread bits until they reassembled into a half-eaten bun, albeit sopping wet with oil.

Arthur watched him pick up the bread and try to eat it without making a mess of himself. “You know, you’re pretty good at that. When you don’t speak, I mean.”

“Wuff?” Merlin chewed quickly in an effort to empty his mouth, presumably so that he could snark something back.

Arthur passed him a rag and watched him scrub the oil from his chin bristles. “All those times I told you to shut up,” Arthur mused. He played with a few grapes as he straightened, wishing he had a proper chair so that he could lounge. “I was helping you.”

“Helping me? How – ”

“Shut up, Merlin.” Arthur leaned forward and stared him straight in the eye, holding up a grape between them. “I’m going to let this go. Make it stay right here.”

Merlin swallowed perhaps half of the bread in his mouth and spoke around what was left. “What are you – ”

“Shut up.” Arthur rolled the grape between two fingers. “Make it float.” Even though Merlin was glaring at Arthur, and not really paying attention to the grape, Arthur let it go. He clasped his hands between his knees, elbows resting on his thighs, and held Merlin’s gaze around the levitating grape. “Your eyes don’t even glow,” he whispered, studying Merlin carefully. There was a hint of amber shine at the edges of the iris, but more blue than anything else. “Not every time.”

“This is hardly magic,” Merlin complained. He swallowed what appeared to be too big a mouthful of bread mush. “I was doing things like this before I could talk.”

“Elemental,” Arthur agreed. “That’s what you called it, right? Your magic isn’t based on words. I think you actually know a whole lot more of it than you realize. It's like training knights. They're at their best when they stop thinking about every drilled footstep and parry, and let their bodies do what they've been trained for naturally.”

"But I _haven't_ been trained." Merlin reached up, his expression deliberate, and flicked the grape. It bounced off of Arthur’s forehead and rolled away on the floor. “Why are we talking about this? What’s your point?”

“No point, really. It’s just interesting. I’ve been reading a lot lately,” Arthur replied, straightening and focusing on the food instead, now that he’d riled Merlin up. “Actual reading. Not sleeping in my soup. Geoffrey isn’t so cagey anymore about his forbidden collection.”

“Oh, please don’t tell me you’ve been thinking too. You know what happens when you do that.”

“Shut up, Merlin.” Arthur stuffed a fresh grape in his mouth and breathed through his nose as Merlin picked at the roast chicken. Merlin did have a healthy appetite, but he always had, as long as there was food in front of him. Arthur wondered if it didn’t occur to him to eat otherwise. Maybe it was like that for people who grew up in scarcity; Arthur couldn’t know, or really understand, but he wanted to at times like this. Just to break his own self-imposed reflection, Arthur cleared his throat and rested his elbows on his knees again. “Do you really feel alright now?”

“Mm,” Merlin grunted around a mouthful of chicken. He grabbed a water cup to wash it down and added, “Wide awake. Gaius used to give me sleeping draughts after to make me rest, but I’d rather not.” He said it casually, but Arthur could see the brief tightening of his brow – a reminder of what had happened once to prevent Gaius being here now.

Arthur nodded. “Of course. Let’s talk about the druids, then. That’s what started this whole mess.”

“Your mess,” Merlin grumbled. He wiped his oily hands off on his trousers – George must love it when he did that, all the nice laundry to wash – and pawed at some papers caught underneath the pile of plates and tepid food. “Here.” He fished out a folded piece of parchment and magicked away a blotch of gooseberry sauce before passing it over. “Since you all seem convinced that my word means something to them, I wrote out a note to send with your reply. It's charmed for authenticity. Something they’d recognize. I think.”

Arthur unfolded the page and skimmed over Merlin’s written assurances that Arthur’s offer was genuine. “So that they'll recognize your writing? Or is it like a sigil – do you have one of those? Some druid mark for _clumsy oaf_?”

“I think I charmed it,” Merlin corrected, his voice curt. “To show it’s the truth. Never tried the spell before. It might just magically-smell like olive loaf or something. And if I did have a sigil, it would stand for _puts up with Arthur Pendragon and his prattish nonsense_.”

“It would be _sock thief,_ ” Arthur grumbled.

“I didn’t steal your socks.”

“That’s true; you just burned them.” Arthur gave him an odd look and sniffed the parchment. “Nothing but paper. The ink smells suspicious. What is this?”

“Dunno. Some kind of berry base.”

“Hm. I like it. Kind of purple. Have George send me some.” Arthur read over the note again and nodded. “This is good. Hopefully it’s enough.”

“I don’t think you should invite them into the castle.”

Without looking up from the page, even though he wasn’t reading it anymore, Arthur asked, “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to let them in until I know I can trust them.”

Arthur blinked into the middle distance and then fixated on Merlin. Not that he’d said anything strange or strangely, but Arthur had notions nowadays that he hadn’t let himself entertain before, when all talk of magic had to be stripped from civilized conversation. “Did you do something to the castle perimeter?”

Merlin made a face at him, as if Arthur shouldn’t have to ask these things. “You’re only now noticing?”

“No,” Arthur denied, flinging the parchment onto a bread basket. “But it occurred to me that we have far fewer merchants wintering over this year than usual, and you are paranoid. I thought it was just the law change and fear of the unrest it caused, but honestly, this makes more sense.”

“Yes,” Merlin snapped back. His glowering fell flat though because Arthur wasn’t intimidated in the least, sorcerer or no. “And that should be a sobering reminder of just how many illicit magical objects have been coming and going from Camelot all this time.”

Arthur rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes briefly before dropping them to sigh at Merlin. “We need to talk about these things before you do them.”

“I’m responsible for protecting you from magic. There’s no telling what sorts of curses or creatures someone could bring in.”

“So you ban all magic from entering the city?” Arthur demanded. “Who does that remind you of?”

Merlin’s words stalled in an open-mouthed and visibly growing outrage. It crackled a bit in the air. Literally. Arthur slid his eyes sideways to watch the water boil in his drinking cup. With all of the calm he could muster, Arthur reached over the table for a jar of tea leaves, selected a choice few, and scattered them in his now steaming cup. A bowl of gravy bubbled over onto a plate of baked apples while he was at it, and then a sausage bun exploded.

“Thanks,” Arthur told him. He stirred a knife around in his tea and flicked sausage from his sleeve. “I was getting parched.” Then he stared back at Merlin with what he hoped was an expressionless face.

It seemed to take some effort, but Merlin broke eye contact and flung himself to his feet so that he could stalk away from the table.

“Awfully literal, isn’t it?” Arthur goaded. He knew it was unkind, and definitely unlikely to help anything, but Merlin was most honest when he was angry. And Arthur was as sick of tailored honesty as he was of the artificially unobtrusive silences of late. A tailor-made Merlin wasn't at all to Arthur's liking. “Boiling mad?”

Facing away, Merlin shouted, “I am trying to keep you safe!”

Arthur watched him breathe too hard where he faced the wall, his shoulders tense and his fist clenched at his side. “And you think that taking up my father’s cause is the way to do that?”

Merlin unwound in rush; it was alarming, how suddenly calm he became. “Is this some new insult to put me down?”

“No, Merlin.” Arthur climbed to his feet and crossed his arms over his chest as he stepped out into the open part of the room. “But I _am_ making a point.”

“What point?” Merlin demanded. He angled his head toward Arthur, and it reminded him of the way Merlin used to enter rooms like prey marking exit routes. Except that if Arthur had really thought about it before, he would have remember that prey didn't do that. Prey looked for places to hide.

Arthur stayed where he was and laughed a bit. “My point is that you’re being stupid. How do you think _banning magic_ from Camelot is going to help? Honestly, Merlin, it's like you've left your wits at the bottom of a mop bucket.”

Abruptly, Merlin snapped, “Do you really think that there aren’t still sorcerers that want you dead?”

Arthur sighed, impatient, and held out a cajoling hand. “Merlin – ”

“You have no idea what magic can do to you – what it’s already tried to do!” Merlin whirled around and raked Arthur over with his gaze. “You’re not taking this seriously.”

“Because you’re being ridiculous about this. Merlin – ”

“I nearly died because of you.”

Arthur fell silent. It would have been different if Merlin had yelled that, or appeared angry about it, but he didn’t. He said it softly, as if he understood. Arthur took a deep breath and tried to swallow the shame that it brought him. “Yes. I know.”

“You are rash and impatient. You have no respect for my concerns.” Merlin merely watched him as he spoke, placid and disappointed. “Or for me. You never have. Silly Merlin and his funny feelings. Your incompetent manservant, or your – your fake prince you can trot out at court.”

“That’s not true,” Arthur denied, imploring. “Nothing about you is fake. And I have so much respect for you, for what you’ve done – ”

“No.” Merlin licked his lips and wagged his head slowly, side to side. “No, you don’t. You’re just like Aymer and Meliot. Howel. What they said at council, when you appointed me to replace Gaius. I’m simple. I’m not suited to advise a king. I can’t comprehend all of your – your vast noble ideals. What it takes to rule. You think I’m simple.”

Arthur tried to blink that away along with the resignation on Merlin’s face. “No.” He shuffled across the floor and brushed a few fingers over Merlin’s chest to feel the Pendragon seal that he still always wore hidden beneath his clothes. “If I truly thought you were simple, I wouldn’t care so much about making sure you’re treated as your rank deserves.”

Merlin watched Arthur’s face even as Arthur watched his own fingers. “ _You_ don’t even treat me like that. You dismiss me,” Merlin told him. “Every time. Every concern I have is stupid or ridiculous. Every time I protest what you’re doing, I’m wrong.”

The clatter of the door startled Arthur back a step. He knew he looked guilty as he watched George enter with yet another platter of food.

“I have calmed Cook,” George announced curtly as he backed around the doorjamb with his armload of food. “And I managed to smooth over the rest of it as well.” He turned around and blinked once at the two of them standing awkwardly in front of a broom cupboard. “Ah. My apologies. I will take this to the stables for the overnight grooms to enjoy while you resolve your issues. Please do make an effort this time.”

Arthur worked his jaw for a few second before it occurred to him to sputter, “I beg your pardon.”

George spun on his heel to make his exit. “It is utterly exhausting dealing with the two of you when you won’t deal with each other.” If he were a bird, he’d be wet, disheveled and irate. But oddly dignified. A stuffy bird with his pinfeathers bent out. “I suggest you engage the latch to avoid any further interruptions.”

Neither of them watched George leave; they watched each other. Arthur couldn’t tell what Merlin saw, exactly, but it seemed to make him wary. It wasn’t specific, though; Merlin appeared uncertain more than anything else, and that kind of thing had always made him watchful.

Arthur lowered his eyes and removed his hands from his waist where he had been posturing without conscious volition. Carefully, he reached out and pushed the door closed. He didn’t latch it, though. He knew that Merlin didn’t like being locked in places, not when he was on guard like this. Their confrontation in the armory came to mind, of course, however unintended, but there were other examples from which Arthur drew. He backed up a step. “What is this really about?”

“You being a block head?”

“Is that a question?”

Merlin swayed to one side and then stepped away from the wall at his back so that Arthur wasn’t hemming him in anymore. “You said you want my advice on magic. My advice is that you shouldn’t trust it, but you don’t want to hear that, so it’s stupid. Just because you rescinded your father’s ban, it doesn’t mean that magic forgives you, or Camelot, for what’s been done to it. And in case you forgot, in the beginning, there were sorcerers who supported your father’s purge. There was a reason for that.”

Arthur flared his nostrils and stared sideways at Merlin. “That’s what you’re here for. As an ally. Or is this your way of saying you don't forgive me either?”

The growing animation on Merlin’s face sank like a small animal beneath the surface of a bog. "I never blamed you."

"That's a lie."

"Don't call me a liar," Merlin ground out. 

Arthur sighed through his teeth. "Stop changing the subject."

Merlin's nose twitched as if he stopped himself from curling his lip in disgust at that. “Fine. Do you know why you’re still alive?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Is this where you remind me of all the times you’ve saved my life?”

“No,” Merlin snapped, cold and disturbingly calm. “This is where I remind you that you got lucky. Because no one knew there was a sorcerer protecting you, and if they had, they would have planned for me. I don’t have that advantage anymore, Arthur. People know about me, and whatever you think, I am _not_ that good. I had help before. I had a dragon. I had Gaius. Those are gone. I could write out the number of real spells I actually know by heart on a single piece of parchment, and still have room left over. I know little to nothing of the old religion – of what’s even _possible_ through it. The sorcerers out there who survived, they aren’t tricksters. They’re the cunning ones – the ones who were too powerful for your father to find or kill. Those aren't the kinds of people who will make peace now; they've lost too much, and the framework of the old religion that kept them in line before is gone. Priests and priestesses, the councils that passed judgement and enforced the balance - your father destroyed them. I have no idea what those sorcerers might plan for you, or how to protect you from them. The only thing I can reliably do is try to keep them away from you.”

Arthur stared at him for a moment, mouth pressed flat, and then looked away. “Geoffrey has books full of magic and the old religion. I thought I made it clear that you are to study them.”

“And how long do you think it will take me to learn everything that even a druid child knows by the time he comes of age?”

Arthur looked down at his hands, and then past them to the table full of congealing plates of food.

“I may be the most powerful sorcerer in these lands, but I can’t do subtlety. I don’t have the knowledge or the skill for it yet, and I wouldn’t know what to look for in a trap. Or didn’t you learn that when I told you what really killed your father?”

“Don’t bring that up.”

“Why? You need to hear it.”

“I have _seen_ you perform magic. It's as much second nature to you as breathing.”

“You have seen me tear things apart with it, or set it on fire. Most everything else, you’ve watched me struggle with. What you think is my _natural magic_ is just tricks, Arthur. Juggling or opening locks. Pranks. Making grapes float. I don’t know the kinds of spells that matter.”

Arthur blew his irritation out through his nose and held up a hand to stop him saying anything more. “Is this really about me, or is it yourself you don’t trust?”

“This isn’t about what I trust. Do you know how many times Morgana nearly killed me, or got past me to you? It's not because she had more power - she didn't. It's because she knew how to use what she had - how to put forth the right effort. What do you tell your knights when they face stronger, larger opponents? To find the weakness in their armor, however small, because it only takes one well-aimed blow to fell a mountain. Brute strength is never a match for careful skill. I don't have the skill.”

Arthur shook his head not because he disagreed, but because he had no rebuttal and however unwise it was of him, he didn't want to hear it. "Look, I know that this comes with risk. Opening this kingdom, welcoming our enemies - "

"Do you even notice how you still call them enemies? You know I'm right, you just don't want to admit it."

"Don't interrupt me! What else am I supposed to do, Merlin? Ignore the overtures that come? That won’t help. And you acting as stand-in for my father? You are undermining what I am trying to accomplish here.”

“And what is that?” Merlin demanded. “What do you want with magic, anyhow? You don’t need it.”

“I need you,” Arthur replied. “And this kingdom needs peace. Real peace. The kind that doesn’t come easy. I don’t want another Morgana. Do you?”

Merlin clucked his tongue as he looked away. “No.”

Arthur hazarded a step closer. “Banning magic from entering this city is not the answer. You know that.”

Merlin shook his head. “I am trying to protect you the only way I know how.”

“And I’m grateful,” Arthur responded. “But maybe you’re not supposed to protect me from this. If I am to unite the five kingdoms, then I need magic on my side. Not just yours. And that comes with risks.”

Agitated, Merlin asserted, “That prophecy is rubbish. Isn’t that what you keep saying? You told me I didn’t have to be that, but if you want to be the Once and Future King, then I have to be the sorcerer at your side.” He finally broke stance entirely and paced past the table, opposite Arthur. He didn’t seem to notice that he was digging at his chest as he walked, as if massaging the hurt there, or trying to ease the memory of stolen breath within.

“I won’t have you force yourself into some role you think you have to play to appease me. I mean that. I can go this on my own, if I have to.” Arthur backstepped and rounded the table to intercept him. As Merlin startled to find him suddenly close, Arthur grabbed his hand and pulled it from his chest. “But that’s not what’s going on here." He held Merlin's hand up between them just to prevent him from clawing at himself again. "Everything that you’re doing now – it only serves to further the persecution that you claim you don’t want.”

“I’m not persecuting anyone!”

With deliberate and cautious calm, Arthur countered, “You are judging people you don’t know as guilty of crimes they haven’t committed yet, and may never commit, just because they have magic.” He paused to consider saying more, and then decided to add, “That doesn’t sound familiar?”

Merlin blinked at him once, and then wrenched free. “Get out.”

“No. I want you to understand – ”

“ _Get out!_ ” Merlin shoved him.

It took Arthur so much by surprise that he nearly tripped and went sprawling. Thankfully, he kept his feet, but Merlin kept shoving. It was an awkward affair, what with him only having one arm free, but there was a wiry strength in those limbs honed by a lifetime of servants’ toil. All the same, Arthur had years of combat training under his belt. He seized at Merlin’s arm and twisted it back, then spun him and locked his arm over Merlin’s chest. “Stop, Merlin. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Let go of me!” Merlin struggled to free himself, and even went so far as trying to kick Arthur in the ankle. He had no coordination. It would be pathetic if he weren’t so earnestly furious.

“You remember what happened last time we fought like this,” Arthur told him, voice controlled but still bitten from the strength needed to keep Merlin contained. “Set my room on fire? Ring any bells?”

Merlin spit something vicious through his teeth and managed to land a kick to Arthur’s shin.

Arthur grunted in pain as he fought to keep a firm hold on Merlin. “Fine. You want a fight?” He bent Merlin’s arm behind his back and shoved him toward the door. “Let’s fight then.”

Arthur dragged a spitting Merlin through the back corridor and out onto the dark, snowy practice field. They picked up a few guards on the way – unavoidable with the ruckus that Merlin was making – but none of them interfered. Perhaps they trusted their king to handle his former servant as he had in the past – not really something that Arthur was proud of, the number of times he’d manhandled Merlin around. More likely to Arthur’s mind was that they didn’t want to get in the way of an angry sorcerer, however benign he might be in public.

Once out in the field, Arthur pretty much threw Merlin onto a snow-covered pile of straw. He smacked into the oiled burlap cloth covering the pile with a sort of _fwoomph_ sound, and the snow gathered six inches deep over top of it bounced before tumbling toward the center to cover Merlin as he flailed. Arthur took a moment to wave the handful of guards back inside. By the time he stalked back, Merlin had tumbled out of the straw and was staggering onto his feet, flinging snow in every which direction. He hurled the burlap onto the ground, tripped over it when it wrapped trailers around his ankle, and then finally lurched free.

“Alright, Merlin.” Arthur held his arms wide, fat snowflakes prickling his bare arms as they fell thick all around and melted on his skin. “Take your best shot.”

Merlin wobbled on his feet and glared daggers at Arthur. His hair already appeared salted from the snow, and more of it caked his tunic and breeches in patches where he'd landed and compressed it under his weight.

“Come on," Arthur goaded. "Man to man.”

“Why, so you can humiliate me some more?”

“No,” Arthur replied, patient.

“I only have one arm to fight with!”

That was his only objection? Interesting. Arthur looked at him, shrugged, and tucked his hand into the back of his belt. He then spun around to show Merlin. “There. Now it’s fair.” He adopted a defensive stance. “Come on, Merlin. Don’t you want a little payback? I’m giving you permission.”

Merlin sneered through his teeth and sidestepped toward the door that led back inside. “I’m not fighting you.”

Casually, Arthur called after him, “Coward.”

Merlin stopped and drew his head back like an affronted duck. “I’m not a coward!”

“You’ve always had fear in you. Fear of magic, fear of being discovered – ”

“I never ran from that.”

“Didn’t you?” Arthur circled around him to block the door into the castle. “But this is different, yes.”

Merlin shuffled backwards, away from him, his boots carving furrows in the snow piled ankle deep all around them.

Arthur shivered; neither of them were dressed for the outdoors. He tightened his fingers on his belt behind his back, and felt the leather creak. “You want to know what I think? I think that nearly dying scared you more than you want to admit.”

Merlin’s face shifted. The veneer of anger was not quite thick enough to conceal the more complicated desperation beneath. “You want to blame everything on that?"

"Fearful men make bad decisions," Arthur pressed. "They do things they wouldn't if they were rational."

"My decisions aren't bad just because you don't like them!"

"So you're not afraid that you can't hide behind me anymore and pretend you're invisible?"

“Sod off.”

Arthur laughed, but it was a mean laugh, and he knew it. "Somebody's feeling exposed."

"And whose fault is that?" Merlin demanded. "Bloody King Arthur and his grand gestures. Was it worth it? All the attention? The adoration? It better have been, because I paid for it in blood!"

Arthur circled him, which he knew was just a cheap bid at provocation, but that hint of vulnerability was like blood in the water. "Are you seriously asking me if my ego is worth more to me than your life?" 

"Is it?" Merlin bit out, head lowered like an emaciated bull with his shoulders hiked up around his ears. It was a pitiful look on him, like a kitten arching its back to look threatening just before it fell over. He never could pull off tough. Too lanky and stiff. 

Arthur made a point of loosening his shoulders, tension bleeding out with careful and deliberate focus. His voice low and sharp, Arthur spit, "Now you're just being an arse. Why don't you put that anger to better use for once. What was it you said to me, back when we met? You could take me apart with one blow?”

“Less than one,” Merlin snarled in return.

“Then do it.” Arthur shifted his stance as Merlin did, already braced for whatever lame attempt at a punch that Merlin could throw. Arthur figured that Merlin could get in a good blow or two, but he wasn’t trained for it. “Come on; I’m not even armed. Teach me a lesson.”

Merlin blinked at him, his face smoothing out even as his eyes narrowed.

“You want me to listen? I'm listening now." 

“In the only language you know,” Merlin bit back. “Swords and fists? You really are Uther’s son.”

Arthur felt his face go blank as well. It didn’t matter that Arthur cautioned himself every morning not to be too much like his father; Merlin had never said that to him as if he meant it. “As you say. Is that all you’ve got? Insults and ugly faces?”

Merlin sniffed and balled both of his hands into fists. “Don’t try me.”

“Ooo,” Arthur sang. “Big bad sorcerer. All that magic and you’ve still got nothing but empty threats. You never could deliver.”

Merlin sucked at his teeth and snarled. “You are a pompous little boy that hits things when he doesn’t get his way.” He sidestepped closer, boots slipping on frozen grass and ice to mock, “ _I’m the king, you have to do what I say_. You think that just because you wear a crown, you know better than everyone else. And if you don’t like what somebody tells you, you can just throw them in the stocks like it’s their fault you’re an arrogant prick.”

Arthur bared his teeth. “You’re no better than me. _Don’t try me_ ,” Arthur whined back. “You’re only afraid of other peoples’ magic because you might not be the best sorcerer in the room anymore. Mean words and dick wagging – that’s all you’ve got. An impotent little man who thinks magic makes him special. But you forget, _Merlin_. Like recognizes like, and that’s how I know that deep down inside, you’re just a terrified, sniveling bully hiding his weakness behind better men. It’s pathetic.”

It actually surprised Arthur when Merlin punched him. He hadn’t thought Merlin had it in him. And he should have seen the tackle coming right after that because that was the only thing Arthur had ever seen him do to start a fight – rush a man and just hope he went down. And they did go down. Both of them. Arthur twisted around and threw Merlin off, then scrambled through the snow after him, his hands burning already from the cold. He ended up with a giant ball of freezing snow in his face, which was actually a clever diversion from the fist that Merlin followed with, but Arthur fought for a living. He dodged, grabbed Merlin’s arm, and hauled him down again.

“You’re cheating!” Merlin snarled. He smacked at Arthur’s arms, and then did something that singed the snow around them and tossed Arthur a few feet away into a snow bank against the stone field wall.

Arthur flailed to get the snow off and looked at Merlin holding his hand out, palm forward. “You used magic on me!”

“You used both arms!”

“How dare you use magic on me!” Arthur ducked and rushed him. Apparently, Merlin was just as slow with magic as with a sword, because Arthur shoulder-butted him in the gut and bowled him down again without any impedance.

Merlin grunted and kicked at him, and Arthur grabbed an ankle to tumble him over his own head. They kind of rolled around in the snow shoving each other’s faces and pulling hair like a couple of girls for a while after that, and occasionally getting an elbow or knee impact to soft tissue. The snow and freezing wet soaked through their clothes in no time and turned Merlin’s ears bright red. It took Arthur a while to realize that no one was breaking them apart, which seemed odd. He shook snow out of his hair long enough to mash Merlin’s nose into some straw, and noticed the small group of people standing nonchalantly near the armory door. And the woman at their head, arms crossed, just watching them.

“Um.” Arthur spit Merlin’s hair out of his face and smacked him on the mouth a few times to get his attention.

Merlin smacked him back and growled as he grabbed Arthur’s ear.

“We should stop,” Arthur grunted. He mashed Merlin’s cheek into the snow, wondered for a moment if Merlin were actually going to bite him, and then muttered, “Your mother is watching.”

Merlin snorted at him. “I’m not falling for that.” He jabbed his knee into Arthur’s side, and they rolled enough that Merlin must have finally noticed her too because he gradually stilled, other than shivering from the cold.

Hunith walked through the trampled snow in her slippers to stand over the pathetic pile that the two of them probably made lying there wet and covered in snow and straw with their clothes yanked every which way. Merlin gasped once and then sneezed rather explosively into the side of Arthur’s head. It wasn’t the worst thing about this situation.

Arthur grinned in a rictus of sorts. “My lady.”

Merlin grimaced and scrubbed at his face. “You got straw in my nose.”

Hunith looked at them, sighed in that particular manner of forbearance that Arthur figured only mothers could muster, and asked softly, “Are you both finished?”

Arthur shoved Merlin the rest of the way off and lurched awkwardly to his feet in an effort at dignity. “We were just…”

“Horseplay,” Merlin barked. He scrambled to his feet with his limbs pointed every which way, then slid sideways for a moment before finding his balance. “It’s, um.” He swiped at his nose, looked twice at the smear of blood that came off, and then repeated, “Horseplay.”

“Horseplay,” Hunith echoed flatly. She glanced to Seren behind her, who merely lifted an eyebrow, and then faced Arthur and Merlin again. “And you think that this is an appropriate way for a king and a prince to settle their differences? In the middle of the night, no less?” She pursed her lips, though her countenance remained soft as always.

Merlin glanced sidelong at Arthur, teeth chattering, and ground out, “He started it.”

Arthur grumbled at him.

“I should drag you both inside by your ears,” Hunith said. “If you insist on behaving like children.”

Arthur snorted. “At least Merlin’s are easy to find.”

Merlin swiveled nothing more than his head to blink at Arthur and then hit him in the bicep.

“Ow,” Arthur told him deadpan. He punched Merlin’s arm in return.

Before Merlin could strike again, Hunith snapped in a discretely hushed tone, “Enough. Both of you. You are grown men, and people are watching. Act like it.”

Arthur sighed and peered at Merlin via his periphery. “Come on. You’re soaking wet.”

Merlin glared at him, visibly shivering, and then looked at himself before his face crinkled up comically as prelude to another sneeze. It rattled his whole frame, and Arthur reached over to pluck a handful of straw from his hair. Merlin ducked and knocked Arthur's arm back, then shoved him again for good measure before he huffed himself past his mother and their unintended audience, body held stiff with cold. Their observers parted in a hurry to let him pass, and he disappeared back into the castle.

With a grimace, Arthur rubbed his arm and looked at Hunith. “I apologize. I didn’t intend for anyone to wake you like this.”

“It’s nearly dawn,” Hunith told him quietly. Her voice was always soft like that, like a peasant demurring to a noble, and yet she always carried herself with a distinct air of dignity. “I was already awake. Old habit, when you live your whole life as a farmer.”

Arthur nodded and let his gaze fit around at the field wall behind her. “Still. You’re right; we were acting like fools.”

“I’ve come to expect that.” Hunith smiled in much the same way that Merlin did sometimes, coy and yet not. Discerning. She tipped her head, indulgent, and fished a handkerchief out from some secret place about her person. “Hold still. He sneezed blood on you.”

Arthur shuddered briefly, noticing the fine droplets spattered on the ground as well, crimson stark against the fresh fallen snow. It reminded him too much of the last time he had Merlin’s blood on him.

Hunith folded the cloth and gently wiped it down the side of Arthur’s face, then around the shell of his ear. “Why were you fighting?”

Arthur coughed and shrugged. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“My son can be difficult.” Hunith looked him over carefully as she drew back, folding the evidence of their skirmish away into the creases of the handkerchief. “I imagine it’s much the same with you.”

“Merlin certainly tries my patience,” Arthur acknowledged.

“I meant that you can also be difficult.”

Arthur blinked his gaze back to her, waited a beat, and then let out a wry snort. “Yes, alright. I can be.”

Hunith smiled, her face sympathetic. “Come along, then.” She inclined her head toward the open door into the castle. “You weren’t raised in a barn. Stop letting the draft in.”

Respectfully, Arthur inclined his head and motioned for her to precede him.

They found Merlin back in the infirmary, struggling to get out of the wet sling on his own. He eyed them both as they entered. There was hostility there still, but oddly enough, Arthur noticed how Merlin directed it just as much at his mother as at Arthur. Nonetheless, Hunith moved to help him, the automatic impulse of a woman toward her injured child.

Merlin shied away, abrupt and jerky. “What are you doing?”

Visibly hurt, Hunith gathered her hands together and stammered, “Helping.”

“Don’t do that,” Merlin told her. He seemed strangely confused by her, and even scandalized. “You don’t do that.”

Arthur snapped, “Merlin. You can be as angry with her as you like, but show her some respect.”

“She’s not – ” Merlin cut himself off, and regarded Hunith with a mixture of indignation and bewilderment. It disappeared so quickly that it might never have been there, except that Arthur knew it remained beneath the surface just from the way that Merlin's eyes pinched at the corners.

Unnoticed until then, George spurred himself forward from off of the staircase to the gallery where he’d been sitting. “Allow me, my lord.” He inclined his head to Hunith with an apologetic grimace, and then set about removing Merlin's sling with no further fuss.

Merlin kept observing Hunith as if worried that she would interfere with him again, even while George moved on to peeling him out of his soaked tunic. “Are you just going to watch him undress me?" Merlin asked. He seemed genuinely bothered. "What are you even doing here?”

Before Arthur could lose his temper at this unexpected rudeness, George murmured, “My lord, please calm yourself.”

Merlin shifted his eyes to George, his focus more intent than seemed called for. “You think this is appropriate?”

“It is perfectly natural for your mother, the _Lady Hunith_ to wish to assist you.” George flapped the wet fabric and pulled it off over Merlin’s head before he could protest again.

Arthur narrowed his eyes at both of them, but mostly at the way George emphasized Hunith’s name, as if Merlin could have forgotten that she was his mother. Except that he looked as if he might have, given the way his eyes widened a fraction before his whole affect went flat. His gaze trailed after George taking away the sodden tunic, and then he shivered and rubbed his bare arm where it dangled at his side. Arthur could see the healing tissue puckered in a small burst of skin on the blade of his shoulder as he turned to keep George in his line of sight.

Insulted on Hunith’s behalf, Arthur walked up to Merlin and flicked his cheek. Merlin jumped a clear half foot, which would have been comical in other circumstances. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Merlin blinked at him a few times, and then startled himself somehow when he apparently registered Arthur standing there. Which was just ludicrous; it wasn’t as if he couldn’t see Arthur the whole time.

Arthur shook his head, bemused, and let Merlin sidle away from him, cradling the loose arm against his chest.

Hunith lingered awkwardly in the center of the room with Seren, waiting perhaps for Merlin to acknowledge her again somehow. When he didn’t, Arthur sighed, though it caught in his throat at the whole inexplicable scene. “My lady, I apologize. Perhaps you’d like some tea? Or we have food.” He made an awkward gesture at the laden table, which really didn’t present well, picked-over and haphazardly piled as it was.

“It’s alright, sire,” Hunith told him. “I should go.”

Arthur shook his head. “You don’t have to.” He glanced over to where Merlin appeared to be studying his supplies of herbs while George maneuvered a fresh tunic over his head. He received the same amount of cooperation from his charge as he would have if dressing a straw dummy. Arthur knew better than to think that Merlin was paying attention to the shelves, though; his eyes weren’t moving.

Hunith followed Arthurs gaze, and then looked down to wrap her shawl more tightly over her shoulders. “Thank you, sire, but I should leave you both to your business.” She cast a last, longing look at Merlin’s stiff back, and then nodded to Arthur as she bowed out of the room. Seren pursed her lips as if she meant to say something, then shook her head as she curtsied. She glared at Merlin, though, before following her mistress out.

Arthur sighed and closed the door. This time, he did latch it, but he shot George a deliberate glance as he did so. George looked back with a weary countenance, as if he had shed whatever reserve of stuffiness he normally wore for skin.

Arthur blinked at him, unnerved, and then shifted his eyes to where Merlin still stood facing his herbs. He was rubbing his shoulder now, but he was quiet in a way that made Arthur’s hair want to stand on end. After George finished convincing him to lift his feet a few times to allow him to skim off the dripping breeches and then put on a dry pair, Arthur called, “Merlin.”

Merlin ducked his chin, glanced aside, and then turned around. His voice, when it came, sounded deadened, like air the air in an empty cavern beneath the castle. His eyes almost matched, but not quite. “What?” He waited a beat, examined Arthur’s posture, and then stated, “I’m not apologizing to you.”

Arthur ignored that and demanded, “What was that all about?”

“You tell me,” Merlin replied. His voice sounded the way that colorless paintings look. “You wanted to fight.”

“I’m not talking about the fight!” Arthur stared at him, expectant, but Merlin didn’t seem inclined to engage with him at all anymore. Frustrated, Arthur let out a long, slow breath to slow his irritated heart. “I’m never going to get you back, am I.”

Merlin screwed his face up to one side. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’m starting to worry that whatever was left of you really did die on that stage, because I’m not sure I recognize the man I’m looking at now. You’re cold, Merlin. You’ve changed, and I don’t like it.”

Merlin straightened his mouth, and his gaze meandered aside before his face did. _“You_ don't like it. And as usual, everything is about you again. Thanks. I’d forgotten.”

Soft and with as much carefully extracted forbearance as Arthur had left, he replied, “It’s not about me at all. All of that talk about choosing the kind of men we want to be, and you choose this?”

“I chose nothing,” Merlin snapped. “Men don’t make the world; the world makes them.”

Arthur inhaled once, shallow and faint, and then let it out again. He let his shoulders slump and forced the tight muscles of his back to loosen. “And here I thought you had more character than that.”

It was a relief, actually, that Merlin appeared ashamed, if only for a bare instant. It meant he wasn’t defeated by whatever was going on with him, not yet. “Well. Feel free to join the long list of people who are disappointed in me.”

“I don’t want to.” Arthur sighed and sidestepped in the hopes that he could step away from this whole vein of conversation, at least for the time being. “Is your shoulder alright?”

“No,” Merlin snapped. His voice cracked as he added, “It hurts.”

Arthur nodded. “Right. I’m sor –”

“Can you just go? I don’t have time for this.”

“What else do you have to do, exactly?” Arthur demanded, put out by this refusal to even accept his attempted apology. “The sun isn’t even up yet.”

“Yes, well, I don’t have the luxury of lazing about half the morning like you. I have a job to do.”

“I do not _laze_.” He did sleep late, though. And too often. Not that Merlin had any right to criticize him for it. He was the king… Arthur stopped that thought because maybe Merlin had a point about that, however ill-thought his words at the time.

Off on the outskirts of the conversation, George held up a dry length of dark fabric. “Your arm, my lord. Do you require assistance?”

Merlin looked down to where he was cradling his bad arm in the other as if he needed to remind himself where it was, one palm up with his fingers curled like a crab stuck on its back. His bravado bled out like water through a sieve. With a shaky calm, he asked, “Can’t you both just leave?”

George glanced at Arthur, then around the rest of the disordered room for a moment before answering, “No, my lord. I won’t leave. And I don’t believe that the king will either.”

Merlin sighed, and his features cracked minutely. His eyes flickered around near his feet, and then he swiveled to pretty much collapse to sit on the bed nearby. It was strange, the way he did it – as if he and George were involved in some other communication, and didn’t even care that Arthur occupied the room with them. Merlin rested his injured arm across his lap, and dropped his head into the other hand with obvious exhaustion.

Cautiously, Arthur approached them both. If he were armed, he would have been holding the hilt of his sword. “What’s going on?”

Merlin scrubbed his hand over his face, and then backwards into his hair, which was never neat to begin with. It stuck up in tufts by the time he dropped his arm back into his lap with the other one. Arthur thought that he may have been whispering something to himself, smothered safe in his palm, before dropping it.

George drew himself up, but it lacked his usual rigor. “You should just tell him, my lord. It will be easier.”

Arthur stepped up beside George. “Tell me what?”

Reluctant but still silent, George nodded at Merlin. “It is not my place, sire.”

“Well, someone had better explain,” Arthur snapped, though he regretted his tone immediately as Merlin cringed away from the sharp retort. More quietly, but with too much of a lingering edge, Arthur asked, “What is going on? Merlin?” When that elicited little more than a wordless denial, Arthur crouched down, balanced precariously on the balls of his feet. Most of his irritation bled out when he saw how Merlin bit his lip and shut his eyes. “What haven’t you told me?”

Merlin raised heavy eyes to Arthur, but only as high as his chin. He had a spot of dried blood at the edge of one nostril, but nothing alarming. It must have itched, though; he kept sniffing and wrinkling his nose.

Behind Arthur, George moved off and began poking through various of Merlin’s supplies before plucking out a jar of powder. He took it to a cupboard, and then over to the kettle at the fire.

“Is that for pain?” Arthur asked, gesturing toward George. “Headache powder?”

Merlin nodded, silent and downcast.

“That can’t be the only thing bothering you.”

“Leave it alone. Please?” Merlin asked.

Arthur studied him for a moment, fully aware that George knew more than he would ever tell Arthur without Merlin’s permission, and that said servant was listening carefully from where he stood waiting beside the fire. Arthur sighed and grabbed a rag from the food table, wet it in his now lukewarm tea, and then weathered Merlin's startled flinch when he used it to scrub off the leftover blood from the round of his nostril. “I’m no good at leaving things alone. Entitled. Remember?" He folded the used cloth and tried on a grin, though he suspected it looked rather sickly so he poked Merlin's knee to retain his attention. The attempt at mirth predictably fell flat and Arthur bit the inside of his lip as he looked down. "Give me something to work with, Merlin. Anything."

Merlin mewled into his hand again, and then gusted out a sigh as he leaned fractions away from Arthur. As if he thought he needed some defense that distance could provide. “She’s my niece.”

Arthur tipped his head to one side, and abruptly felt the chill in the room as if it hadn’t been there all along. “Hunith?”

Merlin nodded. “My niece.”

“She’s your mother,” Arthur corrected, careful to keep his voice level.

“Yes,” Merlin agreed. “And my sister’s child.”

Arthur swallowed. “I don’t understand.”

“I remember,” Merlin croaked. He curled forward over his own lap and spoke muffled into the nest of his arms there. “I remember all of it. Since I woke up.”

Arthur’s breath faltered as he touched his fingertips to the back of Merlin’s hand. The first few days after regaining consciousness after Samhain, Merlin had been so quiet. So still. It had alarmed Arthur at first, but thankfully, the reaction faded quickly. And of course, Arthur remembered the sudden and alarming propensity for drink that Merlin never showed before, Gaius’s tavern excuses be damned. Arthur actually ordered the staff not to bring Merlin any wine or ale, no matter what he said, after finding him passed out in a bowl of powdered plant root at his table when he should have been at council. It hadn’t made any sense at the time. Arthur took a breath and demanded, "How long were you going to keep this from me?"

A tiny sound forced its way from Merlin's throat, and he shook his head. It wasn't an answer, more just an expression of helplessness, or being overwhelmed. 

"You don't think this is important?" Arthur asked.

"I don't know!" Merlin wailed. "Just stop."

"No!" Arthur tried to catch his gaze and failed; Merlin kept his head resolutely tucked nearly into his own lap. Forcefully, Arthur ordered, "Look at me." He shoved at Merlin's chest to make him unfurl a bit. “I don’t, for one second, believe that you and he are the same person. Is that what you're worried about?”

“But I remember him!” Merlin shivered briefly, and then jumped when George appeared beside him with a steaming cup. “I don’t want that.”

“Please, my lord.” George held it out to him. “It will only be worse later.”

Merlin ignored him and seemed to address himself to Arthur; it was hard to tell, though, as he purposefully avoided looking at either Arthur or George, his eyes roving at random over the room beyond them. “You know, he went mad from this. All of them did. They said it’s in our blood. Wynn and our mum – Adhan, mum – and me – him – the other one, and my…uncle or – or grandfather – Gods, I’m so confused.” Merlin scrubbed a trembling hand over his face again, sniffed as he raised his head, and took the cup from George as if he weren’t even thinking about what he was doing. He took a sip, grimaced, coughed without opening his mouth so that it didn't dribble out, and then choked it past his throat. “This is foul,” he muttered, but he took another sip. That one seemed to go down more smoothly.

Arthur met George’s professionally neutral glance, and then faced Merlin again. “You’re not going mad. I won’t allow it.”

Merlin snorted, though it sounded more bitter than it should have been. “You can’t just decide that by royal decree.”

“I don’t see why not.” Arthur smiled in an attempt to lessen the gravity of the moment. “I’m the king,” he quipped, desperate for it to come off as humorous. “You have to do what I say.”

Merlin treated him to a tolerant look, his eyes rimmed in red with dark circles beneath them – stark enough that Arthur wondered how he had missed that earlier. Merlin sounded defeated when he murmured, “Of course, sire.”

Arthur sobered soon after. “What sorts of things do you remember, exactly?”

Merlin cast a wary look toward George, who merely returned it blankly, and then frowned at his half-consumed headache remedy. “I remember that your father was an ass, but he was worse before he had you. I think being a father actually made him a better man. Which isn’t saying much.” He tossed Arthur an apologetic glance. “No offense.”

“None taken.” Arthur watched him openly, half expecting to see evidence of some other person behind his eyes, whereas Merlin seemed more comfortable pretending that he wasn’t looking back. “That’s an odd place to start," Arthur remarked. "Why tell me that first?”

Merlin shrugged. “I might have been wrong about him, is all. Back then, I mean. When I said he’d ruin you.”

“You’re not the one who said that,” Arthur reminded him, though he did allow himself to consider that maybe he was, and that Arthur just didn’t want that to be true. “Myrddin did.”

Merlin nodded, clearly unconvinced. “It’s more confusing to keep us separate in my head.”

“Noted.” Arthur glanced away as George moved off to do whatever servants did in other parts of rooms. “If you have all of him in there, though, why don’t you know everything he did about magic or the old religion? He would have known a lot.”

Merlin twisted his mouth up to one side and blinked into the middle distance, as if seeing other things behind his own eyes. Eventually, he shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Arthur left that alone. “What else do you remember?”

“I was – he was a drunk.” Merlin's eyes flickered aside to meet George’s gaze briefly from across the room. “Worse than Gwaine. He got mean when he drank. It was – he heard voices. All the time. From magic, and Seeing. The crystals – looking into them – it’s not good. If you look too long, they – they keep you. Some part of you. I - he lived in there for a while. In the crystal cave, just...all the time. We’re not meant for that. The drinking made everything quiet again.”

Arthur nodded, more toward the floor than at what Merlin said. “You heard Guinevere after she died. Are you saying that you hear other things too?”

“No.” Merlin’s head wobbled a bit as his gaze veered off to the left. “Well, sometimes, but not like that. I don’t think so.”

“You talk to yourself,” Arthur felt compelled to point out. “Whisper. It’s not something I noticed you doing before. Just in the past day or so.”

Merlin nodded, his eyes roving at random over the various shelves nearby. “I, um. Since Samhain, I have to remind myself. Sometimes. Where I am, or who people are to me. It overlaps with, um. Him.” He sighed the last word and made some kind of effort to hook his hair behind his ear, out of his face. “Things he remembers.”

Arthur opened his mouth around a whole silent tirade of nothing, and tried to collect his wits along with a sharp breath. “Right. And how often does this happen?”

“Not very.”

In an unenthusiastically dutiful tone, George interjected, “Only so long as he sleeps well each night, sire. Which he typically doesn’t.”

Merlin blinked a few times, glared at nothing, and then abruptly snapped. “Yes. Thank you, George.”

Arthur glanced at George, who was clearly over Merlin and his evasive tactics, though he did appear unhappy at having presumably broken some kind of trust. Arthur turned back as Merlin reached over to pick at Arthur’s cuff where he had bled on him earlier that evening, in the throes of the fit. Arthur turned his hand over to better expose the cuff and let him fuss at it, absent as the action seemed. It appeared to sooth him somehow.

“Also,” Merlin said, his tone reluctant, “there are people in the lower town, and some on staff here who have magic of a kind.” He thumbed at the stain on Arthur’s cuff and then made a preoccupied gesture, fluttering his fingers against it. The blood gradually evaporated, as if it had never marred the fabric. A stain setting in reverse. Merlin didn’t seem to register that he’d done anything out of the ordinary as he continued speaking. “It’s what druids do. It's in their blood. Some of them – some of _us_ can talk to each other without being near, or speaking out loud.” He tapped his fingers up Arthur’s sleeve, and the spatters from their fight also disappeared in the wake of his touch, like blotting ink spots from stone with a damp cloth. “I don’t think I’m supposed to be able to hear all of them if they’re not talking directly to me, but I do sometimes.” Flashes of gentle amber came and went, a susurration of abnormal color swirling mostly hidden beneath Merlin’s brow. “Like being in a room, and just hearing conversations. It’s disorienting.”

Curious, and yet not all that certain that whatever he was hearing could be attributed to real voices, given the other things he’d just admitted, Arthur asked, “What sorts of things are they saying?”

“They’re scared,” Merlin said, retracting his hands. He actually sounded baffled or disturbed by that. “They’re afraid that you didn’t mean it – lifting the ban. Or that you changed your mind. They're cautious still. And they…they warn each other when I’m coming. Every morning. I don’t… I don’t know why. They hide and go quiet. I don’t think they want me to know they’re there, but they’re not doing anything wrong, so I don’t know what I did to make them avoid me. Or if they think I'd..." Merlin weaved his head as if trying to avoid the words he thought. "Gaius was my mentor. He had magic, and he helped Uther make lists. And I'm... I'm his student, aren't I?"

Arthur sighed and rubbed his hand over Merlin's bicep in a warming gesture. It was only after he did it that he realized Merlin actually was shivering, probably leftover chill from the snow. "Yes, you are. And yes, he did help my father identify sorcerers. That doesn't mean that you ever would." 

"They don't know that," Merlin pointed out, his gaze lost somewhere past Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur ticked his head to one side and asked, "Merlin, did it never occur to you that they might fear you now because they can tell that it's you who has blocked magic from entering the city? It's suspicious for the king's sorcerer to do something like that right after I made such a radical change to the laws." Arthur frowned at him, then pushed to his feet to save his knees the strain. He snagged a stool with his foot and dragged it over in front of Merlin so that he could sit facing him. "It's natural to assume you're doing that on my orders. And all of these concerns that you have for my safety? Merlin, if people are still unwilling to give me the benefit of the doubt on magic, then it could be your fault, at least in part. You're acting without my knowledge, and frankly, in contravention of my laws. You are making this situation worse."

Merlin ducked his head and scrubbed his hand violently through his hair. 

"I want these wards, or whatever they are, removed immediately," Arthur pressed. "And if there is anything else you've done like that without telling me, I expect you to either reverse it, or tell me about it now so that I can decide how to proceed."

"I'm not undermining you!" Merlin snapped into his elbow. His fingers clamped into his hair as he made a frustrated sound. "You don't understand."

Arthur sighed, long and winded. He really didn't know how Merlin could fail to see this. "You will remove the wards, Merlin. Do I make myself clear?"

Merlin popped up out of his arms like a small rodent from a flooded den, his hair puffed everywhere from being worried so harshly in his fist. "I did this for you!"

"Alright." Arthur let out a breath and tried to expel his exasperation with it. "I know you're worried, but I survived seventeen years without your protection. It's not like I'm defenseless. And you've done other things to protect me, haven't you? Charmed my armor, gave me a magic sword... Those and my guards have been enough for the entirety of my reign. They're enough now too."

"You don't know that! You're not the one who has to deal with it when it's not enough - I am! It's _my_ life on the line, and I'm tired of it! This is keeping us both safe!"

Arthur breathed out; he was actually relieved that Merlin said that because it meant that no matter what he'd said in a fraught moment in the forest, under threat of execution, he did want his life. This was an idea that Arthur could address. It was something he'd been worrying about ever since Samhain, that Merlin didn't put as much stock on what happened as Arthur did - that it didn't bother him. "You _are_ afraid to die."

Merlin's whole face reflected the mingling outrage and disbelief that he must have felt at that. "Of course I am! What the hell is wrong with you?"

Arthur scooted his stool forward and reached for Merlin's wrist, but Merlin hit him to keep him off. Hard. It was enough for Arthur to wisely keep his hands to himself. "You know I'm sorry for what happened to you, don't you?" When Merlin merely sneered off to one side, Arthur insisted, "You have no idea how much I regret the results of that day. I watched you die - I held you after the breath was gone. It was a nightmare, Merlin. It still is, sometimes."

The air shifted around them, and Merlin fairly vibrated with anger before yelling, "You are the most selfish person I've ever met - not everything is about you!"

"No, it's not," Arthur allowed. "And that's not what I'm trying to imply, either. I can't imagine what that was like for you. It's natural to be afraid of it - men _should_ fear death - but the way you're going about it is not healthy."

"Oh, stop patronizing me." Merlin slid sideways and shoved to his feet. "It's not me you should be worried about. Who would protect you if I get killed on account of your stupid, egotistical need to make sure everyone thinks you look brave?"

Arthur watched him pace to the opposite wall, veer off toward the fireplace, and then stop. He raised his voice to be heard clearly across the room and asked, "You think that's all I'm worried about? Myself?"

Merlin grabbed at his shoulder and bowed forward with a pained hiss faint enough that it may have actually been a wet log in the fire making that sound. 

"You're going to hurt yourself," Arthur pointed out, referring to more than just his unwrapped shoulder. 

"What do you care, so long as you get what you want?"

The way that he said that took Arthur aback, as if he really thought that. As if he could possibly believe that of Arthur, after all the things they had said to each other in the past year. After how hard Arthur had tried to be better. The way Guinevere taught him just by being in his life, and then not being there anymore. Arthur was aware of George hovering in the background, trying not to draw notice to himself, but this seemed too important a thing to let pass just because there was a servant there. "Merlin, you're more than a chosen brother to me. I wouldn't survive losing you."

"No, I suppose you wouldn't, for long," Merlin bit out, wincing as he rubbed his abused shoulder joint. 

"You're taking that wrongly, aren't you," Arthur divined. "I'm not referencing hostile magic, or Camelot's defenses. I only survived losing Guinevere because I still had you. If you were gone too... Merlin, there was a moment, up on that stage, when I understood my father's crusade. If Wynn hadn't been there... It is a frighteningly short step between grief and retribution. Even Meliot saw it. It terrified him enough to leave him crying in front of my throne."

"I'm not responsible for your poor choices and lack of impulse control."

Arthur sucked in a shallow breath, his features pulling slack. "You...really believe that. You think I only value you for your _usefulness_ to my crown."

Merlin grimaced and cupped his elbow to relieve the strain on his shoulder. "It's not like I think it's malicious. It's just who you are."

The breath thinned from Arthur's lungs as he refused to allow any moisture well up in his eyes. He had embarrassed himself enough already. "Fuck you," he breathed. 

Merlin had the absolute gall to look hurt by that. 

More forcefully, Arthur stood and repeated, " _Fuck you,_ you arrogant shit. You don't know the first thing about what I feel! How dare you put your own self hatred on me!"

Merlin just stared at him, uncomprehending. 

"Did you forget how many manservants I went through before you came along?" Arthur demanded. " _Competent_ manservants? I didn't keep you on because you were _useful_ , I kept you on because I _liked_ you!"

Admirably, George kept on wiping things down near the broom cupboard as if a completely ludicrous argument weren't swirling at his back. For a long moment, that was the only sound in the room - the faint swish of cloth on wood, and then clay jars, and then various medical utensils. Finally, Merlin broke the staring contest that he and Arthur were engaged in, and his whole posture went soft as he conceded. "I think that's the most insulting compliment you've ever given me." Merlin still seemed mildly befuddled, though, as he said that. 

Arthur scoffed and turned away to wipe the melted snow from his face, because it had to be that. Dripping down his eye sockets from his hair. He refused to be crying over this utter tripe. "Go to hell, Merlin, if you honestly think my regard is so cheap. How can you not know what you mean to me? After everything I've said to you - after I put my place on the throne at risk for you! I was ready to walk away at the wellspring. For _you_. If they wouldn't accept you. Doesn't that tell you something?"

"You...what?"

"I all but challenged them over you!"

A few soft footfalls sounded through the room as Merlin shuffled about. "You would give up your crown? For me?"

Arthur growled into his hands and then tossed one aside as he kicked the stool, his other hand clenched at his waist. "You," he all but moaned through painfully grit teeth, his eyes trained at the ceiling, "are my entire heart. Or the only reason there's any of it left, anyway. What's a crown beside that?"

Merlin entered Arthur's periphery by chance as he wandered about the room. "What if that was by design?"

Arthur let out a mean snort. "Are you suggesting that you seduced me to your magical cause?"

"No," Merlin replied, ignoring the edge of mockery in Arthur's voice. "It's just odd, isn't it? That we would end up here. Like this. Fulfilling a dying prophecy."

"Is it really that odd?" Arthur shrugged, unable to hold onto his anger even though he still felt the sting of their exchange. "I only did what I thought was right."

"Because of me," Merlin replied. "Because I'm likeable."

Arthur rolled his eyes and meandered away from the upended stool. "You really think too much of yourself sometimes."

"Great uncle Myrddin wasn't a sympathetic sort. You wouldn't have stood up to anyone for him."

"What _are_ you getting at?"

Merlin barely took note of the way that Arthur prowled the length of the room. His eyes seemed to grow heavy as he spoke, languid and distant. “I don’t know what they did at the end – it’s all fuzzy and…smeary. Disjointed. Wynn, she didn’t have the kind of magic he did, but he wasn’t capable anymore to see it through. I gave her something – _he_ gave her something, or did something... Made her promise to give it back.” Merlin swayed and peered unseeing off to one side. “A life. She cursed him out for it, but she promised anyway. It’s all…fractured.” He rapidly tapped the side of his head and then shook it as if dislodging cobwebs, his movements short and clipped. “She was screaming. In the crowd as I burned. I remember I wanted to cry for breaking her like that. She didn’t deserve it.” 

By the time he fell silent again, Merlin had threaded his way through the room and paused within arm's reach. Arthur blinked at his boots for a moment before looking at Merlin again. There were so many things he wanted to say, but they were too disturbing. Instead, Arthur reached out and brushed the back of his hand. After Merlin ticked and appeared to come back to the present, Arthur asked, “He orchestrated this?”

“Which _this_?” Merlin asked. His voice lingered on the sibilants before he picked up the headache tea he'd left on the table and made himself take another sip. “I don’t know. He might have, but I don’t see how. It's suspicious though, isn't it? He couldn't get the job done, and now here I am. Your perfect compliment.”

Arthur expelled a short, sharp breath. "Seriously, Merlin. The ego on you."

“I know." Merlin grimaced into the dregs of his cup. “But it's too much coincidence, isn't it? I mean, why did I even care if you lived or died in the beginning? You weren't anything to me, and I was willing to trade my life for yours in the first year even though you treated me like dirt most of the time."

"Because you're a good man?" Arthur suggested. The reminder that Merlin had once thought little of him pricked at his conscience, but he couldn't deny the young man he'd been. "Because you thought it was a calling, and you needed that purpose?"

"You make me sound pathetic," Merlin complained. "I know you think I'm terminally friendly, or socially damaged or something, but it's not like I'm desperate to fit in somewhere. I'm not. I don't have friends like other people do, and I don't mind that. It's just you, and even I know that what I feel toward you borders on obsession. Just, why would I grow so attached to you so quickly like that? It doesn't make sense - I didn't even like you all that much. I just...couldn't leave."

Arthur swallowed and looked down. He had thought once before, walking away from his father's body after a long night of conflicted vigil, that perhaps it was Merlin who was enchanted and bound, and not Arthur being manipulated or used by magic. After years of observation, he had dismissed it for the paranoid and prejudiced fancy that it was, but if Merlin had thought similar things over the years, was it really such a ludicrous idea? "You think that our friendship is a lie? That, what, your devotion to me is just a spell of some kind?"

"I think that the forces that brought us here aren't what they seem. That maybe we're both victims. That doesn't bother you?"

"It bothers me, yes," Arthur allowed. "But we feel as we do regardless. Why make ourselves miserable for something we can't change? If Myrddin did something to make us this way, then we have to live with it as best we can. It's not all bad, is it? Or are you truly so unhappy that you want to unmake the past decade? Throw it away over a few uncomfortable notions? You can't even prove it was engineered, can you?"

Merlin shook his head. "No. By the end, I don’t think he really knew what he was doing. Myrddin. He wasn't sane anymore. But he had the Sight, and that’s complicated. It’s not like you just see things that other people don’t. It’s a whole other force, like there’s another you living inside of you, and it’s a parasite, but it knows things you never could. Patterns. It can take over.”

Arthur glanced at George again, who looked away this time.

“Your father wasn’t wrong about everything.” Merlin kept his tone modulated, and appeared to choose his words with care. “Certain kinds of magic do take over the host. Sight can be like that. You might do things without knowing why. Things the magic wants done.”

Arthur watched him for too long in silence. “What about you? Has that ever happened to you?”

Merlin’s body skewed sideways, his posture uneasy. “I know I’ve said things that don’t make sense. Like with Eira, or at the wellspring.” He tapped his chest, and the movement turned into his habitual digging at whatever wasn’t there beneath his skin to bother him. “And sometimes, I feel like something’s coming. But Morgana was the Seer, not me. I try to stay away from those things. They’re not safe.”

Arthur stepped forward and gathered Merlin’s fingers together, clasping them to his own chest so that Merlin couldn’t hurt himself gouging at his sternum. He didn’t really want to know, but maybe he did. A little. “Did you know what was going to happen that day? You were worried about being stabbed in the back – you made a joke about it. And the itching, the way you acted like your chest was tight. What you said the night before about not stopping someone who thought they were protecting me – that’s the only reason I spared Meliot, you know. Because you said that.”

Merlin shook his head, but it wasn’t a certain thing. “I had a feeling, I think. Like it was almost done. But people knew about me. Too many of them. It wasn’t going to last. It could have been that. I was waiting for the whole thing to come crashing down anyway. No big surprise that it did.”

“You and your funny feelings,” Arthur murmured. He squeezed the hand in his possession, and was heartened when Merlin squeezed back. “Drink that,” Arthur reminded him again, touching the rim of his cup.

Automatically, Merlin did as he was told, then asserted, “I wasn’t trying to manipulate you, or anyone.” Merlin swayed and sank back down to sit on his bed again, his head lifted and his gaze flickering out to graze the edges of Arthur’s face. He let Arthur keep hold of his hand, his arm stretched up toward Arthur's chest. “I didn’t let anything happen, but I don't know what _he_ did. Just... He set something in motion. Breadcrumbs, and he knew everyone would play their parts. It was strange, when you were speaking. Everything just felt heavy and underwater. I could hear someone saying _you don’t –_ ”

“ – _have to worry_.” Arthur swallowed the sensation of sick that those words always brought him now.

Merlin nodded. “Gwen. She was in the crowd.” Merlin sucked in a breath and shook himself hard, as if to dispel the sensation of whatever he recalled. “There are things missing. From – from great uncle me.”

“You’re not – “

“I know I’m not him! It’s just easier.” Merlin warbled under his breath, clearly frustrated and confused as he tugged his hand free so that he could wipe it down his face. “I think Wynn did something more than life magic, but maybe it didn’t work.” He seemed to need extra breath to collect his thoughts and remain calm as he spoke. “Magic degrades over time; it wears away. If it’s a spell I did before I died, it might not have lasted all the way through. And using her as a medium, it wouldn’t be pure anymore.”

“Or,” Arthur mused, “there are holes because he was mad. Maybe he didn’t mean to do what he did at all.” And left behind a twisted trail of affliction to torment a man whose only misfortune was to share blood and be named for him. "Not everything we do is fated. Sometimes, we just do the right things and everything aligns by chance."

“He told Leundugrance to find the queen.” Merlin rubbed his forehead too roughly for pleasant company. "That isn't chance; it's architecture. I’m sorry,” he breathed, his voice thin like a wind in the reeds. “I should have told you about him after I woke up.” His eyes shone with an odd moisture when he looked up again – not tears, but still wet the way tear ducts fill when a person stares too long at a flame. “I don't know what to do with any of this. I know something's wrong with me, but it’s not like I think about it all the time. It's not...real...always. It's like it slips away when I'm doing other things - it's just not there. And it's not usually overwhelming like this. It’s just, Hunith was here, and she looks like mum – I mean, she – ” Merlin squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, breathing too quickly, and then shook himself. “Hunith looks like Adhan, and I get confused. Adhan rejected him as her son. He didn't like her at the end; she betrayed him. Like Arianrhod did to her son. I don't think she ever wanted me - him. She was glad to see Vortigern's men finally take him.”

Arthur recalled what Leundugrance had said at the wellspring. "To stop two dragons from fighting? His father would have been alive still; he couldn't have stopped them."

"That's not what they took him for," Merlin told him. "They didn't know there were dragons underneath until Myrddin told them. They just needed a fatherless child's blood to paint the foundation stones of his keep so the walls wouldn't fall again, which she knew when they took me. It was all bullshit; blood magic's no good for that, and it wouldn't have stopped the dragons fighting. They would have killed him for nothing, on the word of crack-pot, fake astrologers. They didn't even have magic; they were just talking out their arses because Vortigern threatened to kill them if they couldn't find a way to fix it."

"I see." Arthur flipped the stool upright again with his foot and perched himself on its edge. It went without saying that Adhan was a woman Myrddin would not necessarily love anymore, or want near him. And if Merlin was confused enough by whatever memories were bleeding through, then he could understand how seeing Hunith might make things worse in his head.

"No, you don't," Merlin countered. His voice a bare shiver of sound, haunted, Merlin told him, “He remembers terrible things.”

Arthur lifted his hand and cupped Merlin’s cheek. He felt the weight as Merlin closed his eyes and pushed into it like an animal starved of touch. If what Merlin was saying were true – if those were memories that Myrddin had lived – then knowing that they resided in Merlin now along with dozens more was an awful thought. “You can’t keep doing this, Merlin - keeping secrets like this. I though we were past the mistrust."

"I trust you," Merlin argued, though the assertion lacked any true force.

"Still," Arthur said. "This is serious. You’re one of my counselors, and I need to know if your judgement is compromised.” He sighed and added, helpless, “I need to be able to trust you back.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t, right now.” Merlin’s words came out like the squeak of an old shoe in a puddle. “I don’t.”

When Merlin didn’t add to that, Arthur sighed and tugged his head down so that he could press his lips to Merlin’s forehead. “Ignore what I just said; it was disingenuous. You are the most important person to me. It hurts to think that you’ve been suffering, and I didn’t notice, and I am disgusted with myself for that because it’s what happened to Guinevere. I didn’t notice, and I lost her.” He held Merlin’s head still when Merlin tried to pull away because he didn’t want the empty platitudes or the pity that he knew would be there if Arthur had to look him in the eye. Thankfully, he subsided with little struggle, and leaned into Arthur again. “I will find a way to help you,” Arthur swore. His face felt hot and congested, but he resolutely forced all of that back. Now wasn’t the time. “The druids have reached out to us. If the overture is real, then they might know about this kind of thing. They could help.”

Merlin hummed into the humid space between their bodies. His limbs continued their fine shivering from the lingering cold of the snow, and perhaps from other things. Exhaustion and stress. Pain from his shoulder. “I know they’re peaceful. They help people with magic. I used to trust them. I sent Morgana to them once.”

Arthur pushed Merlin’s head back far enough that they could make eye contact. “Did Myrddin trust them?”

Merlin swallowed and shook his head. “But his mind wasn’t right. He couldn’t trust anyone; it just wasn’t in him anymore. Arthur, what if he won’t go away? What if we are the same person now?”

Arthur swiped his thumbs over Merlin’s scruffy cheeks and held his gaze. “You’re not. He had his chance at life, and it's over now. He can't just usurp yours.”

"But I remember being him. I remember the cold in the winter, and mum raving that no man fathered me, and battles I wasn't alive for, and the king he loved falling - "

"Stop," Arthur whispered. “I will tear him out of you if that’s the only way.” He rested their foreheads together, uncomfortably aware of the memory of Merlin trying to rip the darkness out of Guinevere, and failing. Nearly mangling them both. “He can’t have you. No one can. You’re mine. And I’m a selfish prat who doesn’t share.”

The grin that spread across Merlin’s face came as more of a spasm than mirth - something Arthur felt against his palms - but it did come. Merlin choked on it a moment later, and nodded. “Promise?”

Arthur breathed deep as he pressed their lips together once, just briefly. “Promise,” he replied. With a breath to gather his thoughts back together as he sat up, Arthur tipped his head at Merlin’s cup. “Come on – finish that. And then I think maybe it’s time you actually had a conversation with your mother. You can’t keep going like this, and she might know something that will help. At the very least, she might know if these things are actually memories, and not…” Arthur trailed off and tried to figure out how to take that back before he had to finish the thought.

“Not me taking after the rest of the family?”

Too hasty, Arthur asserted, “That’s not what I was going to say.”

“You don’t have to sugarcoat it,” Merlin said. “None of them were right in the head - the royal house of Dyfedd. Madness runs in that bloodline more than four generations back. I know what might be happening to me.”

Arthur sucked on his teeth and looked down. “Yes, I suppose you do. But I told you, you’re not going mad. That’s final. But you do need to discuss this with your mother. At the very least, she deserves to know why you’ve been acting this way toward her. And the madness hasn't touched her, has it? That has to mean something."

"It means that she doesn't have magic," Merlin replied. "All the mad ones did."

"Still. She might know a way to help. Maybe the late queen told her something useful.”

“I don’t want her involved in this,” Merlin snapped. He pulled away from Arthur’s hands and drained the cup with a grimace before adding, “We sent her away. She deserves her peace.”

“She doesn’t have peace,” Arthur replied, eyeing him at the sudden swing in mood. “And she is part of this. He made her part of this _by_ sending her away. Didn’t he?” Arthur sighed. “You've said that she made comments before - told you things that imply she knew at least some of what they planned. I know that you don’t want to think you were made for their purpose, but what if you were?” He looked down, shook his head, thought better of saying more, and then asked, “What if we both were? Wouldn’t it be better to know?”

“You don’t want anything to do with prophecy,” Merlin reminded him.

“Funny, though, how it keeps finding us.” And how Merlin said _you_ but not _we_ or _I_ don’t want anything to do with it _._ Arthur ticked his tongue against the back of his teeth. “I was raised to duty. To being something predetermined. A king. Duty is something I understand, whether I want it or not. Shirking it is – it would be understandable, and even sympathetic to not want the responsibility, but it wouldn't necessarily be right to refuse it. Innocent people suffer when greater men ignore their duty. What if this is something we have to do? Or be? For the good of all?” He raised his eyebrows and ducked to catch Merlin’s wandering gaze. “You used to believe that it was. You gave your whole life to it, once.”

Merlin stared at him for a while, unblinking from beneath lowered brows. “You’re not honestly considering that. Think about what you’re saying. Prophecy kills people. The men who bring it about don’t live past its fruition. If you commit to this, it will be the thing you die for. Is magic really worth that?”

“Magic isn’t the only thing at play here,” Arthur told him. “It’s about a golden age, isn’t it? Peace and prosperity for the five kingdoms.”

Merlin gave him a resigned sort of look. “Golden ages don’t last.”

“Nothing lasts,” Arthur countered. “That doesn’t mean that the things we fight for aren’t worth it – that the age means nothing, just because it’s finite.”

Merlin swallowed. “Are you really asking me to help you bring about your own death? Because I don’t think I can do that. I _know_ I can’t.”

“Everything dies in time; there's not way around that. What exactly did you think I meant to do when I reversed my father’s laws? What did you think that was for?” Arthur took a deep breath – one that reached farther than his lungs or the air he needed to breathe. “The thought of fate, that it’s inescapable – that my life and my decisions aren’t my own – that terrifies me, and makes me angry. But I can’t turn my back on it if there’s merit to the cause. And there is, in this one. I’m not asking you to go back to being some tool of the old religion, or to engineer my end. I’m asking you to help me live a life I can be proud of. To _live_ , Merlin. And to bring this kingdom peace. You’re right; I don’t put much stock in prophecy and all of that mystic nonsense. But I can see how it might happen. How we might manage this. Just ignore all of the destiny talk, and the things you’ve been told about it, and think of what it would be like to have that peace, even if just for one lifetime. Isn’t that worth some sacrifice?”

“Some sacrifice,” Merlin echoed, his voice thick. “This isn’t _some_. What you’re talking about – it’s consuming. It’s playing with the old religion. You can’t trust it to treat you fairly. It will toss you over for whatever balance it thinks it needs without a second thought. It isn’t conscious – it’s a force of nature. It doesn’t care about you anymore than floods do.”

“I know,” Arthur replied. “And I’ve seen that.” In some manner he couldn’t quite define yet, he was looking at it every time he looked at Merlin, or Camelot, or himself. “I know you think I’m being flippant about it, but I’m aware that it’s dangerous.” He shrugged. “It's already in our lives, though, isn't it? We're both here, like this. As you said, that can't all be chance."

"Of course, it's not," Merlin told him. "That doesn't mean you have to give in to it."

"Who says I'm giving in? Would it be such a bad thing, to unite this kingdom? To choose to do something I’d want to do anyway? Not because some crazy women in a cave told me to, or your mad great uncle put his fingers all over the ether, but of my own free will?”

"It's not your own free will, though." Merlin stared at him, intent. "You wouldn't think this if I hadn't put those ideas in your head, and I wouldn't have told you about the prophecies if others hadn't made me think they were real. It's an illusion, Arthur. All of it - it's a long game."

"We both know you don't believe that," Arthur countered. "I know you, Merlin. You do think it's real. You have since the day you came here."

“Arthur, don’t make me do this. Please.”

“I won’t force you to do anything,” Arthur replied, his words close and hushed – just for Merlin. Just for them, there in a private corner of a dusty old infirmary. “But I’m doing this. Alright? I want what I can see on the horizon – what the disir told me about. What you used to tell me I could be. I want it for my kingdom. For my people. And I want you beside me when I do it, but I understand if you can’t. I wouldn't even blame you for that.”

Merlin shook his head, and the conflict showed on his face – puffy eyes and the threat of moisture. Dread and hope. Yearning and terror, and sorrow even through the want. He looked confused by how much he seemed to want it, as if maybe he didn’t know why he ever would. “You don’t understand. I _have_ to be by your side. If you do this, you make that decision for both of us.”

“My will doesn’t bind you,” Arthur scoffed. “I know you’re loyal, Merlin, but that part of it is your choice, not mine.” But he wasn't sure anymore that it was. Merlin was...different. Not quite human, according to some. A creature of the old religion. Perhaps Arthur's will did not bind him, but the old religion might. Was it fair for Arthur to ask this, knowing that there was a chance that Merlin couldn't refuse after all?

Merlin denied the validity of that statement, and put paid to Arthur's fears simply by acting like Arthur hadn’t spoken. “You have no idea what you’re asking me to do.”

Arthur nodded, and fought the impulse to allow his own feelings to overcome his reason. “Yes, I do. I’m asking you…” Arthur swallowed abruptly, shook his shoulders loose, and regrouped. He gripped Merlin’s tangled fingers in his own. “I’m asking you…when it’s over…”

Merlin looked down at their hands when Arthur faltered a second time. A few hot drops of salt water splattered onto the back of Arthur’s palm. He sighed, a sound both gravid and hushed. “You’re asking me to put you in the lake.”

Arthur’s chest lay fallow for a moment, a still encasement for lungs that needed a few heartbeats’ rest. He didn’t want to know if that were memory of the things Merlin had said earlier that night, or something else. Something that perhaps he had known all along, and denied. “Yes,” Arthur breathed. “That’s what I’m asking.”

Merlin squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled through clogged nostrils. “You can still get out of it. You’re not trapped.” _You_ are not trapped. Implying that maybe Merlin was.

In spite of his own fears to the contrary, Arthur asserted, “Neither are you.” Arthur felt Merlin’s fingers wind tight beneath his hand. “And yes, I could just let this go. Be a mediocre king with a content populace and nothing more. But I would regret it. And so would you.”

“Is this just pride, then? You have to shine the brightest? Because if all you want is a legacy, there are safer ways to have that.”

“Probably some pride to it, yes,” Arthur allowed. “But it’s not myself or my name I’m worried about. It’s my kingdom. It’s all five kingdoms. I have the ability to make us all prosper – I can see the path to get there. Don’t I owe that to them all? Wouldn’t it be selfish of me to give less than I could?”

“You’re an arse,” Merlin asserted, but it lacked conviction. He tipped forward at an angle, against Arthur’s shoulder. “But you always wanted to be king for the right reasons. It’s why I stayed with you.”

Arthur shifted his arm and cupped the side of Merlin’s head to keep him where he fell. “Does that mean you’re with me now?”

“Always,” Merlin replied. But he wilted when he said it, and Arthur let him. “This doesn’t mean I’m going to stop fighting you on it. You can’t ask that of me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Arthur dug his chin into the crown of Merlin’s head. “I don’t think anyone has ever loved me quite the way you do. You’d break the world to save me.”

“I still might,” Merlin mumbled. “You know, it wasn’t only about Ygraine. Your father’s purge. It started as revenge for his wife, but I don’t think that’s what drove it so far. It was you. He didn’t let the prophecy play out the way it was supposed to because he didn’t want this for you. That’s why he broke his word. That’s why he tried to destroy everything. To keep it away. Because magic wanted you. And he knew it would kill you in the end to get what it wants.” Merlin swallowed, his throat pressed to Arthur’s clavicle where he could feel the click and bob of it. “He was only afraid of it when it got too close to you. Otherwise, he just hated it for what it took.”

Arthur watched Merlin’s hair flutter as Arthur exhaled into it. He shifted and pressed his nose against Merlin’s skull, just behind his ear. From there, Arthur could see the thin white line of scar tissue as along his temple as if it were a ridgeline on a map. “Remember the atrocity of that,” Arthur murmured. “Remember what his fear cost all of us. It wasn’t a noble cause.”

Merlin breathed quietly against him for a while. It seemed to take ages of contemplation before Merlin agreed, “No, it wasn’t. But I understand now. Why he did it. Why they all did it.”

Something about the way Merlin said that troubled Arthur more than he thought it should, but it didn’t bear contemplation just then. He sat up and braced Merlin as he slumped to follow, then extracted the cup from Merlin’s lax fingers. A brief examination showed some powdery dregs and nothing more. Arthur passed it back to George, who had appeared at some point behind his shoulder, dutiful and waiting.

Merlin blinked heavy lids at the both of them. “You drugged me.”

“Valerian root,” George confirmed. “If you feel it this strongly, then it is only because you desperately need the rest, my lord.”

“My work – ”

“I will make your morning deliveries,” George told him. “Everything is prepared already. You needn’t concern yourself. And I will wake you if there is any problem.”

Merlin shook his head, slow and muddled like an old naggy horse. “I don’t want to sleep.”

Arthur barely had to nudge him to flop back onto the pillows. “Shut up, Merlin. You’ll hardly lose any daylight.” He picked Merlin’s legs up and swung them onto the bed as well, where George immediately moved to pull his boots off. Carefully, Arthur maneuvered Merlin’s injured arm onto a folded quilt so that it wouldn’t lay at an angle and pull at the still-healing joint.

“S’not fair,” Merlin slurred. He didn’t even have his eyes open anymore.

Arthur accepted the blanket that George passed him and ordered, “Stop whining and go to sleep.” He shook it out, a nice thick coverlet that Arthur recognized as one of his own. He paused a moment to give the thing a pointed look, and then narrowed his eyes at George, but George was impervious and merely stared back. With an indulgent sigh, Arthur fluffed the coverlet over Merlin’s lanky frame and then smoothed it down his chest. “Are you sleeping?”

Merlin shivered hard in a rolling wave and then mumble-hummed his way into stillness, aggrieved but pretty much gone already.

“George.” Arthur crooked his fingers to bring him back from where he appeared to already be packing up medicines for delivery.

George immediately dropped everything and hurried over. “Yes, sire?”

“Find me some parchment and a quill. And fresh ink. I can’t magic it all liquid again like he can.”

“Of course, sire.” George bowed and then began searching the renewed mess that Merlin had already made of the place, just in the time that Arthur took napping on the table.

Arthur huffed at Merlin as he shifted around and mumbled some more, arranged the coverlet to his satisfaction, and then stepped around piles of old books to the table. “And do something with all of this food. Give it away before it spoils.”

George popped out of a cupboard, blinked at the over-large, cold meal once fit for a king, and nodded. “I’ll have it removed shortly. Forgive me, sire, but do you intend to remain here all morning?”

Careful to keep his voice down, but irritated nonetheless, Arthur demanded, “Who else is going to keep an eye on him, if you’re making deliveries?”

“I intended to call one of the other servants,” George replied. “Someone I trust, obviously. Or a midwife, if any are free.”

“That won’t be necessary, then. I’m perfectly capable of writing correspondence here.”

“As you wish, sire.” George eyed him for a bit longer, though not quite enough to be rude, and then slowly ducked back into the cupboard.

“Were you ever going to tell me about any of this?”

“No, sire.” George appeared at Arthur’s elbow with the requested writing supplies, set them on the table, and then grabbed a platter of dried fruits. “My lord Merlin asked me not to. He did not want you bothered with his problems.”

“Bothered? How is he a bother – he’s family.”

George slowed to a stop in the midst of collecting more dishes. “Sire, I fear that you fail to understand how strongly he identifies as your servant. With very few exceptions, it is not his place to trouble you.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes at him. “You better not be the one putting that rubbish in his head.”

“I am not, sire. But the thought of his rank is a great source of discomfort for him. He values himself for his ability to serve you. When that is threatened or removed, he has nothing to fall back on. Being plagued by his various conditions threatens his standing. Even his rightful title does that. It risks your reliance on his service. He is loath to give that up, as it is the only thing he uses to judge his worth to himself.”

Arthur tipped his chin toward his chest, his gaze meandering off as if he could find some response or rebuttal to that just sitting on a shelf, covered in dust. “That hardly sounds healthy.”

“No, sire. I daresay, it is not.” George collected some scattered buns back onto their platter as he spoke. “But as you have both noted, his devotion to you is unnatural and obsessive. And I am certain that you are already aware of how he has had to twist himself in order to survive. There are surely worse things he could be as a result of that than devoted. And I do feel that it is my duty to caution you that were something like this to come up again, I would again assist him in covering it up. I understand why he thinks as he does. I even find it laudable, in a way.”

“Of course, you would.” Arthur mushed his hand over his face and sat down at the table. “I hate how loyal you are to him.”

“With respect,” George replied, bussing a second pile of food away to set outside in the corridor, “you do not.”

Arthur grunted in lieu of either lying or agreeing with him. “Shut up.”

“As you wish, sire.”

Arthur glared at him just to make a point, which was lost on George, and pulled a blank page into place. He paused, though, staring at the unblemished surface. “Am I making a mistake?”

Faint with uncertainty, George inquired, “Sire?”

“Is he right?” Arthur found himself watching Merlin from the corner of his eye. “Am I ignoring valid concerns?”

George looked down at the picked-over chicken platter in his hands and slowly set it back down on the worktop. “I believe that perhaps, knowing the deeds he has done in the past, it is easy to become caught up in the general feeling of awe which has gripped your court. To assume that he is unbeatable simply because he has been, as he says, lucky so far. That would be a mistake, sire.”

Arthur tapped his quill against the edge of the inkpot and nodded. “Thank you, George.”

George firmed up his grip on the platter and replied, "It is my pleasure to serve, sire."

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>


	4. Chapter 4

The marketplace flowed around Arthur like tide water frothing against a pitted, rocky shore. A moderate blanket of snow muffled most of the racket that Arthur normally associated with the lower town, his people bundled up against the cold, subdued as they rushed to finish their business outside. The chill bit through the early morning air, sharp as wolf’s teeth, and though the snow had stopped, the sun remained hidden behind heavy, ominous clouds. Everyone seemed eager to retire back indoors to their families and hearth fires just in case another storm came.

Everyone except for Arthur. Yes, the amount of snowfall was odd for a typical Camelot winter, and yes, his cold feet ached in his boots just like anyone else's, but he wasn't in any hurry to go back to the castle. Merlin was probably still sleeping under George's watchful eye now that the medicine deliveries were done, and if Arthur were cooped up in there, the temptation to roust Merlin from his sorely needed rest just to keep Arthur company might have overcome him. Restlessness itched beneath Arthur's skin, though it could have been his actual skin that itched; the arid cold of late winter seemed to leave everything dry and cracked, even people sometimes.

Just to break the relentless churning of his thoughts, Arthur remarked, “The days are getting longer.”

Leon kept a steady pace with him, dressed casually but fully armed except for chainmail or plate. “Yes, sire. We could do with some stronger light, if this snow ever lets up.”

“Mm.” Arthur nodded as he passed a shivering spice merchant. It made him think of mulled wine or hot cider, which led to an odd yearning for Merlin to just appear with a steaming mug for no other reason than to bring Arthur unexpected cheer. He scratched rather too vigorously at his scalp to distract himself from yearning after sweet drinks, considered the merits of a hideously wooly hat to stop his ears turning red with cold, and then ignored Leon's concerned glance. “Not that I don’t find talk of the weather scintillating, but I was hoping to have your thoughts on the other thing.”

Leon made a reluctant but considering noise at the resumption of their earlier conversation. “I think perhaps that Dyfedd must refer to Merlin himself, no? He is its heir, and there isn’t a kingdom left. So it must be him. Or his mother?”

“Let not _Merlin_ tremble before the council of Albion?” Arthur rolled that over in his mind for a moment, wondering how it might place in with all the rest of the strange things Merlin had pronounced the previous night. "I mean, I suppose he does get twitchy in dangerous situations, but I'd hardly call it trembling." Shaking in his boots, maybe. But Arthur would only describe it as such to Merlin's face, and then only to infuriate him. He did like to get Merlin all puffed up and indignant, though lately, it was less good fun and more honest fury.

Leon shrugged and continued eyeing the random people passing on the street; he seemed jumpy today. “A reference to his illness, perhaps?”

Arthur made a face at the side of his head. “Seems rather too on the nose, doesn’t it?” When Leon didn’t offer any follow-up thoughts, Arthur asked, “And who are the Mercian firebrands? The way he said it sounded like they were against the rest of us at some point. Mercia is our ally.”

“We’ve not heard from Mercia this winter,” Leon pointed out. “Not since his emissary abandoned our court at Samhain. They would have arrived back in Mercia well before Yule, which may be why Bayard didn’t send back our tidings for that either. It’s possible he intends to break with us over the treaty violation.”

Meaning the legalization of magic in Camelot. Arthur grimaced, but only with half of his face. It was a possibility he’d considered more than once, if fleetingly, given the strained peace that existed between the kingdoms. In truth, Arthur didn't think that Mercia gave a fig about magic, legal or otherwise; it was more the principle of the matter. Bayard had never liked the Pendragons, and as far as Arthur was concerned, the historic border dispute acted as little more than a façade covering Bayard’s true impetus toward hostility, whatever that might be. Personal dislike of Uther, maybe? Or perhaps he really did just feel cheated of land and resources in the peace accords following the final defeat of Vortigern's Saxon allies. Mercia had ceded some territory, after all. Not that it was valuable land for anything but the symbolism of concession - rough, unlivable terrain and old forests, mostly. Petty to hold a grudge all these years over it, but many nobles were petty, and it wouldn't surprise Arthur if that were truly the whole story. In any case, Mercia represented a threat come spring. He would have to think about that soon.

Leon didn't seem to be stuck in the same dire thoughts with which he'd inadvertently saddled Arthur. “Sire, who exactly are we looking for?”

Arthur hooked his thumbs on his sword belt as he shook off concerns for uncertain wars. They couldn't do much about Mercia in the dead of winter; the campaigning season would bring news on that front, if any. “I’ll know when I see him.” He had to sidestep a woman who ran out from a cross street, and then attempted to look as he weren’t well aware of the fact that he was in the way of all sorts of people. It might have had something to do with how he just sort of weaved and plodded down the middle of the road, taking up the whole thing like he owned it. Which he did. Which was not the point. Arthur sighed and moved to one side, off the main thoroughfare. “Firebrand,” he mused aloud. “Is it a euphemism? Light bringer? Burning thing, marker, sigil… Or a literal firebrand? Maybe it’s a reference to dragons. Do you think there could be more of them in the mountains of Mercia? Could they be in hiding?”

Leon shook his head and asked, “Why does this trouble you so? I didn't think you even believed in prophecy.”

Too quickly, Arthur replied, "I don't." It sounded defensive in his own ears, and he sighed as he amended that to, "Not exactly." Arthur quirked an eyebrow in Leon’s direction and retorted, “Why does it trouble _you_? I can see what your face is doing under all that hair.” Arthur made a mocking gesture at his own face as if to fluff a mirror image of the thick beard that Leon wore. 

"It doesn't trouble me." Leon glanced uneasily at the surrounding townsfolk, who regarded them back in kind, and added, "We should try to be less conspicuous, sire."

It was unusual for Arthur to be about in riding clothes like this, especially in such cold, snowy conditions, and alone with a single guard. In his younger days, he had gone about like this quite a lot, but there was a difference between a young boy prince galivanting around town without any armor on, and the king trying to do the same. Of course, people would notice him. "How on earth do you expect me to be _less conspicuous_?" Arthur spun around to walk backwards so that he could face Leon. "I can hardly hide the fact that I'm king."

"You could at least dress appropriately." Leon nodded at Arthur's lack of a cloak. "It would help you stand out less."

Arthur shrugged that off. "It's not that cold."

Unimpressed, Leon pointed out, "Is that why you are walking about with your hands stuffed in your armpits, sire?"

In an obvious mockery of himself, Arthur retorted, "I don’t have to explain myself to you." A few lazy, fat snowflakes drifted down around them, likely dislodged from a roofline by the breeze up above. Arthur quelled a shiver with a harsh shake of his shoulders, as if he could feel the chill on him from cold water and a muddy shore. “It’s the way he said it." Arthur grimaced and turned aside to peer at the browned, mushy snow covering the street. "There was something in his eyes. His voice. It just…felt true.” 

Leon lowered his eyes in a gesture of apology for his coming words, though when they came, he sounded as if he were trying to hide irritation. "Sire, you said yourself that he'd just suffered a fit and didn't know where he was."

Arthur tapped his foot against a hitching post, then pivoted to lean against it. He grimaced around at the mostly empty street, filth and mud obscured by an unevenly pocked blanket of snow. A few trails showed pathways tread by the folk down here, but little else. 

"And I know that there is an urge for men to look for meaning after stressful events – "

"Oh for god's sake." Arthur tugged his hands free from his armpits so that he could throw them vaguely at Leon. "I'm not having a crisis of belief. You weren't there; you didn't hear him."

"Sire, with respect, we all know that Merlin has not been all that steady of late." Leon said it quietly, perhaps to muffle it from Arthur as much as from passersby, his beard and mustache blending over his lips for how hard he pressed them together. "I’m as fond of him as I ever was, and he’s a wonderful physician. But he isn’t well, and I think that we are all aware of that right now."

Arthur flared his nostrils and tossed a few flickering glances Leon's way, in between scanning the intersections of nearby cross streets in hopes of spotting his quarry. _Not well_ , his balls. Even Merlin himself would have thought that understated, had he been there just then. "Fine; I see your point."

Leon shifted and tried to look casual, which didn’t work for a man accustomed to standing at attention all day. “Please don’t toy with this, sire.”

"Why does it matter to you?" Arthur demanded, turning his head to face him. "If it's delusion, why insist I stop considering it?"

Leon grimaced out into the snowy street, shaking his head as he did so. "It goes in hand with madness, whether it's true Seeing or not. And to be honest, I can't tell anymore if there is such a thing as soothsaying. I didn’t used to think so, but magic doesn’t seem so simple anymore."

Arthur cocked his head at Leon and examined him for tells that he knew he likely wouldn't find; Leon could be cagey when he wanted to be. "Your father?"

Leon nodded and frowned at his hands. He picked at the dry skin of his cuticles for a moment, and then admitted, " _Find the queen_. He has his...ticks, if you will." He bit his lip and let the pull of teeth ruffle his mustache out of shape as he peered out again at the nearby buildings. "That was one of them. For the past few years, his senility has been predictable. Turtle mouths, and pockets, and odd rhymes. And a repeated insistence that someone remember to _find the queen_. We never knew what it meant, and he couldn’t tell us."

"Coincidence, or design?" Arthur shifted to lean more comfortably in place. "Makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

"No," Leon replied. "It makes me worry. What will such things do to all of us, if we let them? Seeing has all but destroyed Merlin's bloodline, and laid ruin to his mother's house. And now it turns its attention to you.”

“I don’t think that’s a new development,” Arthur remarked offhandedly. _You are destined to become the greatest king that Albion has ever known._

Leon nodded, but said, “And look at what it’s done so far to your own house. Your mother’s death, your father’s ruin, your sister’s madness.” He paused as if to reconsider the wisdom of speaking, and then continued, though more hushed out of respect. “Your – ”

“Don’t,” Arthur warned. “Do not go there.”

“Forgive me, sire.” Leon bowed his head to underscore that. “I have overstepped.”

Arthur thought of his lovely Guinevere, as that was surely where Leon had been headed. Her face stuck in his mind still, undimmed, but this time, it wasn’t her poise as queen or the dignity as she held up her head that flittered about his thoughts. Instead, it was the bittersweet longing with which she used to look at him when he was still a prince, and they both thought that loving each other was impossible. Turned out that in a way, it was. They’d had so little time, after all. Not even enough for a child. Arthur shook his head to rid himself of that thought, as it was an odd one for him to have. He’d never brooded over the production of an heir before; it wasn’t important to him the way that it probably should have been, or the way that it definitely was to others. He frowned, and wondered why Guinevere never brought it up either. Shouldn’t a queen worry about such things?

“Sire? Please, forget I said anything. It wasn’t my place.”

“It’s alright, Leon. Sometimes I forget…” Arthur watched his boots for a moment, ground his toe into a mound of slush and then smoothed it out beneath his sole. He didn’t forget, though. He remembered her face when she had thought that he might marry another to please his father, and still, somehow, loved him for it and refused to say that she would move on from him. Instead, when he asked her what she would do, she told him that she would watch him grow into the king that Camelot deserved. She died, though, before he made it that far. And yet, some part of Arthur did believe that she kept watching. That she saw him on Samhain, before the last living part of her faded and left. That it was the moment she needed to see before she could let him go. Or perhaps before she could let go of the last part left of herself. 

Arthur’s lungs filled with the depth of the breath he took, as if to remind himself that he did still breathe. When he raised his eyes to the marketplace again, whatever else he might have said went unspoken. Arthur saw the man he had been hoping to find stride past the end of the street on which they loitered. “There!” Arthur pointed and shoved himself off from the hitching post. “There he is.”

“Sire?” Leon hastened after him, boots sticking in the mud. 

Arthur ignored Leon and raised his voice to call out, “Oi! You there.”

Several people paused and turned toward their king, including Arthur’s target. 

"Yes, you." Arthur pointed, but only briefly; he didn't want to be rude. Or more rude, as it were. Shouting probably didn't help that cause. “It’s alright,” he proclaimed far too loudly for a situation that really was alright. In an effort to demonstrate that there was nothing amiss, he held his hands up, palms forward. “I just want to talk.”

The man looked much the same as Arthur remembered him from Samhain, though pale from the cold and less anguished. And he had a child with him – a little boy. “Sire.” He bowed lower than was required, and then stayed there, peering up. “Please, sire.” He kept his voice low, presumably to avoid being overheard by other common folk even as they seemed to melt into buildings and generally scurry in off the streets. “Let my boy go home. He’s done nothing wrong.”

Arthur let out an uncomfortable laugh. “Neither have you. This isn’t an inquiry.” When the man’s eyes darted past Arthur to where Leon stood, Arthur sighed and turned as well. “Leon, go try to look less intimidating. I’m fine here.”

Leon’s gaze flickered between the obeisant man and Arthur before he nodded and retreated. Somehow, he just ended up intimidating a boarded-up market stand instead. 

Arthur let out a muted sigh; Leon deserved every accolade he received, but sometimes, Arthur despaired of his obviousness. Shaking his head, he turned back to the commoner. “I apologize for worrying you. Please, stand up.” Arthur gestured at him to stop stooping over there near Arthur’s knees. “And tell me your name.”

“Geraint, sire.” The man gradually unfolded until he stood at a height with Arthur, his hand out at his side to continue shielding the little boy, who appeared no more than five as he peeked around Geraint’s leg to gape at Arthur.

“Geraint,” Arthur repeated. “Good. Is there somewhere we can speak privately? I’d rather not drag you back up to the castle and give people the wrong idea.”

“What idea, sire?” Geraint stepped in front of the boy, outright blocking him from Arthur now. “Why me? I’ve done nothing wrong, sire. Nothing, I swear. I am loyal.”

Arthur had to acknowledge the man’s fear at that point, and also his own neglect of the mood of his people over the long, ponderous winter months. He softened his voice and his stance, and leaned onto his back foot in the hope that he would appear less confrontational that way. “I know you are. I remember you from Samhain. You were near the front of the crowd, and the first to fall to your knees.” Arthur swallowed and attempted to project a humble air. “At the moment, I require an alternate perspective on things to do with magic. And other than Merlin, you are the only person I could think to recognize who almost certainly has it, and probably won’t try to kill me right away.” Arthur grinned to underscore that last bit as a joke.

Geraint stared at him for a moment, horrified, and then down at his boy before casting a troubled glance around the now deserted street as if to find help somewhere. 

“Right, that may have been in poor taste.” Arthur grimaced when even to his own ears, he sounded more irritated than sorry. He couldn't help thinking that Merlin would have laughed, or at least glared in good-natured, feigned affront. Not that Merlin was in any way a suitable yardstick for the behavior of normal people. In an effort to deflect from his failed levity, Arthur held his hands up for peace. “My word as king: I only want to talk.”

Finally, and perhaps only because no one appeared to rescue him somehow, Geraint offered him a resigned nod. “My home is this way, sire.” He held his fingers out in the direction of the perimeter wall that stretched around the majority of the lower town, then pushed his son ahead, careful to keep his own body between Arthur and the boy. 

“Thank you, Geraint.” Arthur waved at Leon to follow, but not too closely. It probably didn’t matter that the big knight with the sword kept a discrete distance, since Leon’s face was well known and he was, well, not all that discrete at all owing to his stature. It wasn’t quite as bad as Percival lumbering around like a giant muscled tree, but only barely. Still, the gesture must count for something, at least?

Geraint led them along the main thoroughfare, and then down a narrower lane that bordered the perimeter wall. The homes here were small, built of stone with low thatched roofs and thicker walls than most since they served as a defensive line in addition to housing. Arthur made a note to perhaps relocate the families here to safer places deeper inside the citadel, or else to follow through on his father’s vague notions over the years of building another wall beyond the moat to act as the primary defensive line. Arthur didn’t think that the collections of rooms down here had ever been meant as habitations, but Camelot had grown by hundreds of people after his father’s ascension to the throne, and in spite of some of his harsher policies. However demoralizing the thought, Merlin had been right all those months ago to point out that while Uther never cared for those with magic, he at least cared about everyone else.

Unfortunately for the poor among Camelot's citizens, that did not guarantee prosperity in any way; only the provision of necessity. These squat buildings appeared to have been barracks at one time, or supply huts converted to living space due to lack of other accommodation within the walls. It was overcrowded, and the multiple attacks on the wall in recent years showed in cracked foundation stones, pits in the rock faces, and rebuilt doorways with new timber cut and notched in haste to rehouse displaced families. And there were so few windows in any of the houses here. Maybe Arthur was spoiled by the privilege of his rank, but he thought it sad to know that families lived in these featureless, dark huts - that children played in the heavily fortified streets where the sun did not often shine. 

They passed beneath one of the watch towers, and Arthur looked up at the guards patrolling the battlements. On this side of the citadel, the stone thick but lower than those nearer the royal house, the forest stretched beyond, deep and dark. Ramparts of fitted stone, pocked from wars and weather, served as first and last defense for the people in this part of the town. And it was a weak point. Of course, Merlin would worry about vulnerability – of how easily this section of wall could be breached by someone sneaking into Camelot with ill intent.

Without meaning to speak, Arthur asked, “What does it feel like?”

Geraint slowed his steps and then followed Arthur’s eyes up toward the battlements. “Sire?”

Committed now, Arthur clarified, “The wards. What do they feel like?”

Geraint frowned back at Arthur, prodding his son to keep moving ahead of him. “Oppressive, sire.”

“Oppressive, how? Like weight?”

Something opened in Geraint’s face as if having it acknowledged, and then being asked made some kind of difference to the caution he had otherwise shown. “If magic were sound, sire, we might call it deafening. It is always there. We can always feel it, and covering our ears does nothing to lessen the roar. Some have trouble sleeping at night, up against it. Others have left the city to winter over at neighboring farmsteads.”

Arthur swallowed, uneasy. “It’s unpleasant, then.”

Even though Arthur didn’t see what Geraint should be sorry for, the apology came out clear in his tone as he replied, “Yes, sire. Such kinds of magic usually are. But we bear it for Camelot’s sake.”

Arthur waited until Geraint faced forward again, and then shook his head as he averted his gaze from the walls. 

They navigated the muddy streets in silence from then on until Geraint turned down toward a collection of small stone houses. They ringed the perimeter of a pocket of open space formed from an angled bow of the western wall where it zigzagged around several outcroppings of stone and a well pump, set back flush against the battlement stone with a watchtower in one corner. Arthur looked around at the various evidence of human occupancy – tools and buckets, a few low fences hemming in hogs or goats, and some chicken pens where birds peeked out of coop doors as they passed. Arthur had been here before, but from above on the walks to the watch towers, and though in his idealism, he often mentioned and championed the poor, he had never really bothered to look much at the commonfolk beneath him. The poverty here was stark, and it struck him much the same way that Merlin’s home had in Ealdor: hard as the packed dirt that they slept on.

The perimeter walls loomed above the rooflines, and Arthur observed a few lone sentries stood shivering against the cold, surveying the bare winter woods. They had rigged a few pulley systems in the spaces between buildings, and Arthur watched a tattered poor woman send a bucket of water up to a waiting sentry. With everything so close together, and the soldiers basically right on top of the inhabitants below, it appeared that an informal cooperation had formed between guards and common folk. Arthur watched the soldiers up top haul the bucket onto the ramparts, examine it briefly, and then start hooting and waving their gratitude to the woman below. She blew them exaggerated kisses, and they made a ridiculous show of trying to catch her imaginary favours. Not water then. Arthur smiled at the small kindness shown by a common woman who didn't _need_ to be nice, and likely couldn’t afford the indulgence, yet still chose to do it.

They reached a small hovel near the end of the housing row, and Geraint knocked before pushing the door open. The little boy tripped inside, eager to yell out to someone that they had guests. Geraint threw Arthur and Leon one last uncertain glance, and then bowed them through the door before him. 

Arthur held his arm out to block Leon and nodded to his sword. “Leave it out here. No weapons.”

Leon merely inclined his head and removed his sword belt, though Arthur could tell from the tightening of his jaw that he lodged a silent protest. After Leon leaned his weapon upright beside the door, Arthur went to do the same.

Geraint stopped him. “With respect, sire. Your sword should stay at your side.”

It occurred to Arthur to be suspicious of what sounded like a veiled warning, but instead, he only felt puzzled. “I have no wish to intimidate your household.”

Geraint nodded with a shadow of a smile - or an attempt at one, at least. “Your sword is not merely a length of sharpened metal, sire. It has magic of its own. It protects you. I would not ask you to set it aside for me.”

Yes, it did have magic, but Arthur always assumed that it was magic like the spells on his armor: passive and easy to overlook. Arthur peered down at the mostly innocuous, if beautiful length of forged metal. He nodded since this seemed important to Geraint, but he took the hanging trailer of leather from his belt and knotted it about the hilt so that he wouldn’t be able to draw it on a whim.

Geraint nodded at the compromise and stood aside to allow them entry to his home. They had to step down as they entered, onto a dirt floor lined with threshing and dry straw to soak up the mud and damp of a peasant dwelling in winter. Arthur waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom and then nodded his head to the woman who stood beside the fireplace, her face turning pale even as she drew herself up straight in recognition of her guest. She dropped in an unsteady curtsy, nearly fumbled the kettle she held, and then hurried to set everything down. Arthur offered her an awkward smile before noticing two more small children sitting on a cot nearby, munching on bread and bits of dried fruit along with the boy who had been out with Geraint. Arthur wiggled his fingers at them, and the smallest tried to hide behind a blanket as a clear prelude to screaming his head off.

Geraint motioned at the children and, presumably, his wife. “Take them out. I’ll call when we’re finished.”

Predictably, the squalling erupted a moment after, and the woman rushed to quiet the child while simultaneously managing to gather the other two, wrestle boots onto the middle child, and then pile them all into cloaks and hats. She refused to look at Arthur or Leon as she tried to rush the pack of children out of Arthur's way, or perhaps just get them safely away from him altogether. Arthur felt his stomach sink at the evidence of a faltering trust, and stepped in front of her as she finally hustled everyone to the door. “Please,” Arthur implored. “Please accept my apology for intruding. I didn’t mean to turn you out of your home.”

The woman paused and met Arthur’s gaze briefly. A muted fear shone in the unshed tears that she seemed to be fighting, but a different light crept in as she looked at Arthur, and read the sincerity on his face. She turned her eyes to her husband afterwards, and both seemed puzzled now rather than lingering over wariness. Finally, the woman bowed her head to Arthur and replied, “It’s no trouble, sire.”

"The children will be alright? It's rather cold outside."

"I - yes, sire." The woman stepped back as if to view him in a different or better light. "We'll be fine. They like to make men out of the snow."

Arthur made an assenting gesture and replied, "I’ve seen children do that. It looks like fun. I might have to try it myself someday."

She blinked at him, and consternation carved several furrows into her brow. "You've never made men in the snow before, sire?"

From beside the fireplace, Geraint hissed, "Enid!"

"Never," Arthur told her. He smiled at Geraint in the hope that he would calm back down. "The years when we had enough snow for it, I couldn't seem to find the time." And it never would have occurred to him, assuming that his father would have even allowed it. He wondered if Merlin would indulge him later, and come frolic about like an idiot for a while. 

The woman - Enid, apparently - smiled back sadly. "I'm sorry to hear that, sire."

Arthur nodded, but the way that she smiled seem to convey some of her formless sadness onto him, because he felt an echo of something that he thought should ache in his chest. It didn't, though; not quite. Without meaning to, he murmured, "So am I."

Enid bent her knee to him again, and that seemed to be the end of it. Arthur watched her herd the children outside. Excited squeals filtered back in through the closed door as they made their way down the street, the children no doubt romping through the snow. Arthur shook himself, exchanged a look with Leon, and then faced their host. “Thank you for taking the time to speak with me. I know that you must be busy, given the season.”

Geraint didn’t answer right away; he seemed to be studying Arthur anew, now that they were alone and he had the leisure to do so. The magic became apparent a moment later when his gaze strayed and then flickered around the edge of Arthur’s face the way that Merlin’s sometimes did. Only, Arthur didn’t feel as exposed when this man did it, and Geraint seemed not to see the same depth of things that Merlin usually did, if that even made sense. It wasn’t as if Arthur had ever asked what he saw when he did that. 

Finally, Geraint nodded, though he still seemed discomfited. “I am happy to help you, sire. In any way that you may require.”

“Thank you.” Arthur took a breath, unsure of how to start. “I’ll be plain, shall I? There have been certain tensions since Samhain, which run counter to my intentions. I would like to find a way to alleviate that. When I lifted the ban, I thought that it would be freeing. Perhaps that was naïve of me, but at the very least, I thought that the fear would subside.”

Geraint swallowed, though it did not appear to be nerves that caused it. Softly, he admitted, “So did we, sire.”

Arthur sighed and looked down. “I was unaware of the more subtle repercussions of what I did. I admit that. My lack of forethought was unwise. It’s a failing I have been cautioned against before. I find myself out of my depth and uncertain how best to move forward. It occurred to me that those with magic have no voice at my court. That’s why I’m here. I hoped that you, and perhaps some others would be willing to comment on the situation. Offer advice, if you have any. Participate in your governance.”

Geraint shook his head. “I don’t understand, sire. You have Emrys beside you. His advice is far superior to ours.”

Arthur looked past Geraint to the back wall of the room in which they stood. Threadbare, unadorned tapestries covered the stones of the perimeter wall against which this small home was built. He had a choice now, he knew: to do the politic thing and protect the integrity of his court and its image to the people, or else throw Merlin under the cart wheels, as it were. Neither option pleased him, but a tempered truth must win out in this situation. “Merlin tries his best, but he suffers many of the same fears and misconceptions that I do concerning magic. He came of age in my father’s court, after all. With me. And he has been subjected to my own prejudices besides. Like me, there are ideas he simply cannot conceive or understand about the place that magic should have in a world where it is not vilified.” Arthur shifted his gaze back to Geraint, to see if his words had any sort of impact at all, for good or for ill.

Something in Geraint’s face seemed sorrowful, even if the confusion showed more prominently than anything else. “Why come to me, sire?”

In an effort at bare honesty, Arthur replied, “Your reaction in the crowd; it struck me. It was for people like you that I made that announcement, and yet when I finally find you in the lower town, you react as you might have done before. As if I may be here to arrest you. And while I cannot blame you for that reaction, it is not what I wanted.”

“What did you want, sire?” 

Slightly put off by the man’s directness, for which Arthur really couldn’t fault him, he admitted, “I…don’t really know. I imagined that things would simply happen. I wasn’t thinking beyond the moment, and the…” He shook his head, none of his words quite adequate. “…the magic I could feel in the air. I wanted equality. Justice, fairness... I wanted unity - _real_ unity. Not the kind my father achieved by inventing an enemy to act as an artificial point of common fear." Arthur forced himself to stop pontificating as he were at court, self-conscious about how saying these things might make him sound. Pompous, or maybe stupid. Out of touch. His father's remembered derision at Arthur's _softer inclinations_ lingered as a dull sting within him, even now. He pushed it aside. "The crux is that I have never lived with magic the way that you have, and neither has Merlin, for all that he’s practically made of it. Neither of us know what it means to live with it the way that most folk do, nor can we guess how to normalize it. To make it common. And as a result, we have both misstepped.”

Geraint considered that while peering off to one side of the room. 

Arthur followed his gaze again to the wall backing the battlements. Since he would have to address it substantively at some point, Arthur offered, “Merlin has the best of intentions, but he can be overzealous about my safety. In the past, that has saved my life. And it is difficult to come back from so many years of such vigilance. To act as if they never happened.”

For a few brief heartbeats, Arthur thought that Geraint may say something disparaging, but he ended up looking down instead. 

“I want to be clear,” Arthur added. “Merlin has my complete confidence, and I won’t sanction him for this in any way. I am the one responsible for the actions of my nobles, and any fault for this situation should be mine. I know that whatever impression he gave, it was not his intention to cause fear or to taint our efforts at integrating magic back into Camelot.”

Geraint lifted his chin. “If that is true, he would never have done such a thing to us. A barrier like that is not an overture. It is not an effort at freedom – it’s not even a reliable safety measure, as there are other ways to pass the boundaries of the citadel. It is simply a show of power, as none of us would be capable of matching or breaking that magic. When we look at it, we do not see a mistake. All we see is a threat and a reminder not to cross him.”

Arthur ticked his tongue off the roof of his mouth as he tried to find words quickly enough that it wouldn’t seem as if he had no good answer. “He may not entirely realize what it does.” Arthur winced the moment it left his mouth. 

“But he made it,” Geraint countered, his tone an accusation. 

Arthur nodded and held up a hand to urge patience. “Yes, I know, but please hear me out. It sounds ridiculous when I say it that way, but he's not exactly trained to...do things - I'm making this worse." Arthur heaved an overlarge breath and scrubbed his hands through his air in spite of how it looked - the king, flustered, un-regal. But maybe human? Earnest. Not that he was crafting his reactions for their effect, but being a little bit more accessible might help. Guinevere taught him that as much as Merlin did. "He's a mule in a glass shop, alright? And his magic is instinctive. If it feels like a barrier to him, then he probably assumes that's what it is. I doubt there's much craft to it, just brute force, but he doesn't know any better - no one has ever tried to show him or teach him the finer details."

Geraint scoffed, tried to hide the unacceptable reaction to the statements of his king, and then flipped over into pensive as if shoved there. Incredulous, Geraint asked, "He had no teacher?"

"No," Arthur replied. "Other than Gaius, of course, but my understanding is that Gaius's magic was always limited. He didn't have all that much skill to teach."

"You...know about Gaius." Geraint straightened as he sucked in an uncomfortable breath. 

"Yes," Arthur replied, droll. "Probably more than I'd like, honestly."

Geraint's eyes flickered over to him, and then he sighed. "He survived the purge from within Uther's own circle. That alone is telling."

"Yes," Arthur said again.

“As did Master Merlin.”

More slowly this time, as it seemed a more gravid acknowledgement, Arthur nodded and replied once more, “Yes. He did survive.” He watched Geraint stare at him, eyes hard but no longer quite as judgmental. And that was a positive step, at least. "Magic has tried to destroy this kingdom. Or at least, that is the reality that Merlin knows. It is, unfortunately, much like the false reality that my father espoused, and that even I have pushed at times. The attacks we've survived, and the loss of friends has damaged Merlin's ability to trust magic. Because of that, he is perhaps too cautious, and too quick to shield Camelot from it, no matter the form it takes. Can you understand that?”

“No,” Geraint replied, his voice sharp only because it was decisive. “Magic does not have a mind of its own; it does not destroy or attack or betray. If evil was done, it was done by man or woman. He should blame them.”

“Not always.”

Arthur nearly leapt from his skin at the unexpected voice behind him. When he twisted to look, he found a woman standing there. She must have entered through a back room, because Arthur hadn’t felt any draft at the door. Self-conscious at his reaction to a perfectly innocuous, unarmed woman, Arthur peeled his fingers from his constrained sword hilt. Behind her, perhaps a half-dozen more men and women of varying ages peered through the doorway at Arthur and Leon. 

Turning to Geraint, the woman explained, “Enid told us to come.”

Geraint flicked his eyes to Arthur for a moment, and then backed down from the newcomers. Leon drew close to Arthur’s side, but Arthur signaled him back again to make room for the others. They brought the stale scent of static air with them. Magic. Arthur tried not to regard any of them with suspicion, but he didn’t think he liked the manner in which Geraint ceded the room to them in a silence much like Arthur’s own: wary, and resentful at the interruption.

“We brought drinks, sire,” the first woman offered, holding up a stoppered jug. Several others behind her did likewise. 

Arthur narrowed his eyes at her. “I know you, don’t I?”

“No, sire.” The woman stepped further into the room, which seemed to act as permission for the others to fan out, stand out of the way, or lay their drink offerings on the table. “Though you may yet recognize me.”

Arthur felt a chill run from the base of his skull, down to lodge around his tailbone. “You’re the Mother. One of the disir. You showed me your face in the cave.”

The woman nodded, but then shook her head. “I _was_ the mother for them. I’m not, anymore. Another has taken my place now. So, yes, while you have seen me before, we’ve not actually met. It is not a woman who dwelt there. Only the goddess was present then.”

Arthur glanced at Leon, who crossed his arms and tried to look less as if he might have been officially named Sentinel of the Corner. 

Facing the woman again, Arthur admitted, “I’m afraid that the distinction is somewhat lost on me.”

The woman smiled, wide and friendly, and also false. She possessed a coldness of manner, but it could have been reserve that made it so, rather than enmity. “No worries, Arthur Pendragon. The old religion is strange to those not raised in its ways."

Arthur thought for a moment that he saw a ghost in her face of the strange goddess he had spoken to once, over a year ago. He remembered this woman warning him of the pain of knowledge, and wished that he had thought to listen better when he had the chance. Hesitantly, he told her, "I am willing to learn of it." Though when he heard his own words, it sounded more like a question than a statement.

"I fear you may yet," the woman replied, cryptic in everything from her words to the tilt of her head. "You wish to speak of magic?”

Arthur blinked at the conversational detour, and then noticed a much younger woman holding out a horned cup for him. Arthur took it and caught a whiff of strongly brewed cider within. It was still warm, though whether by magic or coming fresh from the fire, he couldn’t tell. He held the cup without drinking, his mind flashing onto Merlin’s disapproving frowns about food he hadn’t tested for Arthur. With a murmured word of thanks regardless, he nodded to the mother woman. “You’ll have to forgive my ignorance. Are you a leader of magic folk?”

“I am a priestess,” she corrected. “In your understanding, it is much the same thing. I can speak for those with magic for the purposes of this conversation.”

"No," Geraint broke in. "I speak for myself. Not all of us follow your order."

The woman glared at him, but Geraint did not seem intimidated in the least. "For the purposes of this conversation," she repeated.

Geraint shook his head. "You are not _my_ mouthpiece. Or Hers anymore. You speak for no one."

One of the other newcomers, an older man, touched Geraint's arm to calm him. "Let it go, lad. Someone has to represent us to the king."

Geraint pursed his lips but eventually nodded, backing down against a pile of firewood.

Arthur shivered a bit and then occupied his troubled mind with taking a seat at the head of the table in the center of Geraint’s small room. Leon slipped into place over his shoulder, the top of his head brushing against the low ceiling beam above them. With a nod to those accompanying her, the former disir woman sat across from him while the others located perches or sat on the small bed in the corner. They all looked like normal people - large and small, dressed in various styles of differing wealth. A man covered in either plaster dust or flour stood content beside a merchant trying too hard to flaunt his means with baubles that winked in the firelight. One woman even took out a pair of knitting needles and stood working on some kind of bonnet. 

"Did you expect us to have hooked noses and green skin?"

Geraint scoffed and looked away, shaking his head as if embarrassed to be associated with her.

Arthur shifted his attention back to the woman across from him at the table. "Is that your way of hinting that you're all actually fairies?"

The woman blinked, taken aback.

"No? Ah, what other green things are there. Trolls. Goblins? Or maybe you’re just very big, enchanted frogs."

The woman's face broke slowly and then turned wry his response to his cheek. "Point taken, sire. You associate with Emrys, after all. You know better than silly superstitions."

Arthur smiled back, but it was a fleeting and unamused thing, irritated as he was by the insulting nature of the assumption she had made about him. “What should I call you?”

“Byrdde, sire.” She inclined her head to him. 

Arthur gave a curt nod, and then admitted, “I expected a title, actually. Is there some formal address that I should use, according to your ways?”

Byrdde hardened the line of her mouth, the expression kin to a smile, though far less warm. “I do have formal address, sire, but it would not be proper to ask it from you.”

“I see.” Arthur narrowed his eyes at the fact that from her quirked eyebrow, Byrdde obviously knew that he didn’t see at all. He cleared his throat and changed tack. “Why were you replaced?”

“I am of that age where I can no longer be a mother. Another was needed who can be.”

That made an odd kind of sense, even if it was strange to him. Arthur frowned at the warm cider cupped in his hands. He wanted to sip at it, but something held him back. He didn’t suspect any of these people of ill intent, but Merlin’s paranoia had a way of infecting the people around him. Rather than dwell on any of that, Arthur shifted and brought his thoughts back to the interrupted matter at hand. “Fine then. Yes, I wish to speak of magic. About ensuring that people with it may feel free to use it as they see fit, in public or otherwise, so long as it breaks no other laws. I am aware that many are still wary about showing themselves to be sorcerers, and that there is some…doubt, shall I say, about my intentions for the future.” He held a hand out in Geraint's direction, who stood still as a statue beside a wood stack near the door. "Geraint has been kind enough to give me some insight already."

The way that Byrdde angled her face toward Geraint without deigning to actually look at him made the slight clear. Without acknowledging him, she confirmed to Arthur, “Your court sorcerer has put many on edge." 

“He is not my court sorcerer,” Arthur corrected, leaving aside any number of other comments or denials he might have made. “He is my court _physician_. I don’t need a court sorcerer. Magic is not a thing I can count and log and use to my satisfaction like arrows or grain stores.”

Byrdde blinked, and Arthur felt a sharp satisfaction at having taken her unaware again. He knew this was a test of some kind, and this gathering less motley than it appeared. And he had no intention of ceding any ground to them. Hesitant now that the discussion seemed to have headed in an unknown direction, Byrdde replied, “That is wise, sire.” Her tone turned up at the end, though, as if that comment tried to be a query just to spite her. She seemed less open as she watched Arthur now.

“My father is a cautionary tale,” Arthur told her quietly. He kept his voice cold, inflectionless on purpose, the way he might have done at court to address an emissary of unknown intent. The effect, he knew, could sound like a lecture, and that was exactly his aim – to put her in her proper place. He didn’t think that he liked this woman all that much, and never mind his prior history with the thing that she had been. Yes, he wanted peace with her kind, but this was still _his_ kingdom. Not hers. Any peace or allowance came by Arthur’s grace, and she seemed too full of her unrevealed titles and her religion to know that. “He used magic – used _sorcerers_ – as he saw fit. And the moment they became inconvenient, he felt justified in discarding them. I won’t make the same mistake. There must be true cooperation between us, the old ways and the new, _freely,_ if we are to coexist. And I am committed to that course."

Several of the other random people in the room shifted and glanced at each other, their faces inscrutable. Byrdde hushed them and looked at Arthur as if seeing him from an unexpected angle. “That _is_ wise, sire. Thank you for that assurance.”

Arthur nodded and forced himself to relax where he sat. “About Merlin,” he began slowly to avoid fumbling any of his words. “Leaving aside the misunderstanding about the perimeter wall, it troubles him – and me – that many of you seem to fear and avoid him since I named him family. I had thought that his relation to me would act as a bridge between myself and your kind, or at the very least, that my acceptance of him as a member of court would serve as a sign of my honest intentions.”

Byrdde nodded and straightened in that particular manner of someone who hasn’t quite caught the true thread of a conversation, and knew it. “He _is_ a bridge of sorts, sire, but I fear that you may have misconstrued his place in your kingdom, and exactly what it is he bridges. Our caution is not to do with his place at your court. Emrys is your protector, not ours - as he should be. No one wants him to mistake us as a threat to you.”

“Merlin is harmless,” Arthur protested. Except he wasn’t; he could be a bit terrifying. Since Byrdde was giving him that dubious look again, and opening her mouth to backtrack, Arthur flapped his hand for her to hold her peace. “Yes, alright. I understand why you would say that. But unless you have actually done something suspect, I don’t see why there is any risk from him.” He paused, leaned back a fraction, and then felt warily compelled to ask, “ _Do_ you want to harm me?”

Every single one of them glanced around at the others, save Geraint, who shook his head with a sigh before saying, “No one here wishes you harm, sire.”

Arthur believed him, but only in speaking for himself. “I would understand if that weren’t the case,” he replied, but he faced Byrdde again instead of continuing to speak to Geraint, and chose his next words carefully. “Camelot has inflicted much pain and suffering onto magic users. Perhaps some wounds run too deep.”

Byrdde pressed her mouth into a thin and uncertain line, her eyes trained on the table for a moment too long to disregard. Eventually, however, she met his gaze again, reserved and considering in much the same way as he was, as if watching a snake and wondering whether it were venomous or not. “Perhaps it is fair to say that neither side is blameless anymore. Peace requires the sacrifice and forgiveness of all parties, however difficult or distasteful. At some point, mutual hurts must cancel each other out. Grudges must be set aside, no matter the pain, lest we simply burn each other to the ground and all perish.”

Without hesitation, Arthur replied, “I am willing to set the past aside if you are.”

“And is Emrys as willing too?”

Arthur sighed into his undrinkable, probably perfectly safe cider. “Merlin will follow my lead.” Probably. Eventually. “But I would ask a favor in return for that.” He lifted his gaze to brush everyone in the room before resting once again on Byrdde. “Talk to him. Interact with him. Let people see that there is open and peaceful communication between common folk of magic, and the royal household.” He bit the inside of his lip as he looked down and dug his thumbs into the enamel of the cider cup. “Let him into your world. More even than me, he needs to see that magic is a good thing, and the burden of showing that falls on you, fair or not. He is still suspicious of others wielding it, and I cannot fault him for that given the many attacks he has deflected over the years. If you are troubled by the stance he has taken, then you can demonstrate his error by setting a better example than those who came before you. Will you try to do that?”

Byrdde blinked, made an indeterminate oval with her mouth, and then asked, “You wish us to…befriend Emrys?”

“No,” Arthur snapped. “I want you to treat _Merlin_ as if he isn’t some kind of druid pariah. He’s a man like any other, and I don’t want him ostracized just because you lot refuse to recognize him as anything other than a – a creature of magic. And yes, I do know that you call him that, and that it is not always done in kindness. At least acknowledge the hurt in that.”

No one spoke for a long moment of stunned silence, and Arthur had to visibly calm himself after his outburst. He hadn’t meant to react with such passion, and it may have led him to reveal too much. 

Byrdde swallowed and appeared ashamed, but only briefly. The expression lingered longer on the faces of the others in the room, at least. “Sire,” she started, then stopped again. “Sire. To be clear, those in this room are not druids. The old religion has many facets and many followers, but we are not all the same. They are a different people. Their understanding of Emrys is unique to them, though we share parts of our mythologies with each other."

Arthur nodded, filing that information away for later, but stated, "My comments stand, regardless."

"Yes, they have merit," Byrdde replied. She considered a small cider cup of her own, but like Arthur, did not drink. "It is not maliciousness that drives us - any of us, the druids included. They claim Merlin as one of them, and love him as their divine leader Emrys, but they are not as numerous as we, and we do not hold him in the same kind of regard. To us, Emrys is separate. He does not lead us, and he is not one of us.”

Several of the onlookers shifted, and Arthur looked up to find Geraint and a few others scowling. So that was a point of contention. Arthur wondered how many factions or different belief systems this small group actually represented.

“It is not that we wish to be cruel,” Byrdde continued, seemingly oblivious to Arthur’s distraction. “Please understand that. Whatever your Merlin is, _Emrys_ is dangerous. I know the dichotomy can make it difficult to understand, because we refer to different things when we speak of Merlin alone versus Emrys alone, and yet they are the same being. To avoid the notice of one is to avoid the notice of the other.”

Arthur hid his sneer in a rather violent frown directed at his hands where they squeezed more tightly around the cider cup. When he looked up, he tried to find some opposing opinion on the faces of the others arrayed about the room. Except for Geraint, however, they all nodded, most of their faces pink or upset at the admission. Geraint himself glared at Byrdde for a moment, strafed his gaze over Arthur, and then sank further back onto his wood pile. The knitting woman glanced at Geraint, frowned at nothing in particular, and then murmured something presumably soothing to him. Whatever it was, it made Geraint sigh and look away from her as well. If Arthur were in a more charitable mood, he would find this divide interesting; it showed how fractured the old religion really was. Or what was left of it, at least. But as it stood in that moment, the only thing Arthur felt was annoyance and perhaps affront, though whether on his own behalf or on Merlin’s, he wasn’t sure.

Turning back to Byrdde, Arthur remarked, “So you admit that you shun him on purpose. What does that serve, exactly?”

“We’re talking round in circles now,” Byrdde told him. “It serves to keep us safe.” Her voice seemed kind on the surface, but there was an edge to it. Not like with the disir – nothing like that. But it still carried that air of prophecy to it, stagnant and musty and cold.

“Merlin doesn’t wish you any harm,” Arthur returned, incredulous but unnerved by the echo of her voice in his mind, overlayed so clearly with that of the strange woman who spoke to him once in a damp, old cave. It was the same voice, and yet clearly not. They spoke with a different cadence, a different accent – even the choice of words and the ordering of them differed. All except for the tone. The actual sound of it. “Not as long as you don’t wish it back on us. And to be clear, you owe your freedom to him. Not to me. I would never have come to regard magic as I have, if not for him. He has done terrible and wonderful things both in defense of this kingdom, for all of us, as some debt to you lot that he didn’t actually owe, and that frankly, I’m not sure all of you actually deserved. And in response, you refuse to show him even a sliver of kindness because of – what? – some ridiculous ravings spouted by old, dead madmen?”

“They are not ravings,” Byrdde snapped. She subsided immediately, though, as if rebuked by the heat of her own outburst. “Or madmen. They are prophecies, spoken by Seers. _Many_ Seers, over the course of centuries. They have provenance.”

“Provenance,” Arthur echoed flatly. He snorted, more a thing of his throat than his nose. “Like a holy relic?”

Byrdde seemed to make an effort not to look up from her hands on the surface of the table, as if that were a focal point for calm. “It is nothing like this new god that you prop up in empty rooms with tall ceilings. The old religion does not need morbid bits of dead holy men’s fingers to pretend its legitimacy.”

One of the men, silent up until now, cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable at the whole thing. “We mean no disrespect, sire, I’m sure. We do have relics of our own. Just…not actual…” He swallowed, and appeared to be wishing himself back in time so that he could have never spoken. “…fingers.”

Arthur opened his mouth, closed it, and then leaned into Leon’s space. He twiddled a few fingers in a vague _come down here for a moment_ gesture. Once Leon lowered his head down near to Arthur’s, Arthur murmured, hopefully soto voce, “We don’t actually have a collection of fingers, do we?”

It took far too long for Leon to answer, and when he did, it was only to say, “Not us, personally.”

Somehow, Arthur reserved his natural reaction and merely swayed upright in his chair again as Leon withdrew. “Yes, alright,” Arthur conceded to Byrdde and the other man who had spoken. “Fair point on the…fingers. Evidently.” How was this his life? He cleared his throat and tried not to linger over how on earth to address this apparent morbidity with the priests that served the new god. “Setting that aside, I don’t see what Seers or prophecy actually has to do with this. I am not asking you for foresight – no one is. This is about the present.”

Byrdde nodded, but said, “Foresight starts in the present. Prophecy _is_ a thing of the present. That is what forms it.”

Arthur sighed and scrunched his face up in frustration behind the shield of one hand. Into his fingers, he grumbled, “You sound like that dragon.” Arthur dropped his hand with a sigh and fixed his gaze on Byrdde, who appeared startled at the comparison he drew. “So fixated on prophecy, and blind to the fact, that you neglect what is right in front of you. It hurts people when you do that. It causes them pain.”

That gave Byrdde pause, and she cast a sour glance into her cider. “Sire, I respect the fact that to you, the old religion is strange and full of superstition in which you find it difficult to believe. Please respect in kind that these beliefs are sacred to us. They shape our lives in ways you cannot comprehend as an outsider.”

“This isn’t about the old religion,” Arthur countered. “This is about magic, and the sorcerers that live in my kingdom. _All_ of them.”

“You speak as if those are different things,” Byrdde returned, insistent. “They are not.”

Arthur shook his head and looked away to gather his thoughts. Instead, he recalled the last conversation he had with Gaius, where he’d been told much the same thing – that magic and the old religion could not be unwound. One _is_ the other. “I didn’t change the laws of this land because of prophecy or destiny, or some archetype that your kind insist on thrusting onto the shoulders of a man who didn’t ask for it. In this instance, magic and the old religion are _not_ the same. It is not magic setting us at odds now.”

“No,” Byrdde agreed, though her tone did not echo that. Her face turned sardonic as she continued, “It is your personal attachment to our so-called _archetype_ which is doing that.”

Arthur gave her an unappreciative look. “I rather think it is your prejudice. I am starting to see that as much as my family persecuted certain peoples in this kingdom, you do the same in your own way. Call your motives what you will, but the effect is no different, is it? He hasn’t done anything to you, and you shun him. Why? His birthright, maybe. Or his name. One that you give him.”

“We shun no one.”

“You have always shunned him,” Arthur countered, picking absently at the tabletop as he stared at Byrdde. Outwardly, he appeared lax and calm, but it was only by design. A deliberate copy of the lassitude of his father when in truth, inside, Arthur knew that Uther had seethed just as violently as he himself did now. “And by _you_ , I do refer to the old religion. So long as he wasn’t doing what you wanted, or wasn’t being useful to you, he deserved no consideration. No quarter. If he dared question you, he was ignored. If he had the audacity of an opinion of his own, or a reluctance to do something morally repugnant, he was punished in some manner. He opposed you, and you attacked him. You don’t really expect me to think that every single time someone came after him, or after me, it was just some rogue keeper of grudges. So, no. You don’t get to sit there and claim that my _personal attachment –_ ” Arthur snarled the words as if they were foul. “ – is the thing putting us all at odds. Merlin is supposed to be your savior, but be honest. You don’t like the manner in which he saves.”

Byrdde narrowed her eyes at him. “This ordeal could have been over years ago, if he had done his part. But he liked playing the serving boy more.”

Arthur tipped his head and then barked out an incredulous laugh. “Oh, you are…really something else. It’s all just pride, isn’t it. Your precious Emrys likes tying my boot laces, and you’re offended by that.”

“People died while he dallied!”

Arthur smacked his hand on the tabletop and shouted, “Then why didn’t any of you help him?!” He jerked under the hand that seized his shoulder, but it was only Leon, warning him to calm. And Arthur appreciated that bit of sense even as he shrugged it off.

Geraint sighed into the abrupt wash of silence that rushed to fill the void following Arthur’s outburst – a spill of water into a tide pool. “For my part – mine and my family’s, at least – we thought it best to stay out of the way. None of us could know the full breadth of what he faced. The risk of interfering, and perhaps undoing some scheme of his, was too great.”

“Scheme,” Arthur echoed. He shook his head with his eyes closed while he scraped a thumbnail over the irritated furrow of his brow. “Don’t you understand? He didn’t have a scheme. No one gave him a scheme – no one explained anything to him. He had to guess.”

“It is you who do not understand, sire.” Byrdde rustled in her seat, and Arthur looked up to find her leaning forward over the cider clasped in her hands. “Emrys does not _guess._ He is a creature of the old religion – a force of magic in and of itself. A thing made by and for fate.”

Flatly, Arthur parroted, “Thing.”

Exasperated, Byrdde admonished, “You must stop assigning your Roman values to our ways if you wish to understand them.”

Arthur considered trying to explain that he was hardly Roman in any way but lineage, but he doubted it would help.

“The point,” Byrdde pressed as if drilling moral lessons into a stone head, “is that there is nothing for us to explain to him. It would be like a child lecturing you on swordplay.”

“And I’m telling you,” Arthur snapped, dropping his hand to smack against the table with an accidental clap of sound. “You are _wrong_. Did you ever ask him?” Arthur bit out, mood souring with the force of a battering ram. “Or did you just assume that his mother giving him my cousin’s name meant something more than familial affection?”

Byrdde shut her eyes in much the same manner as Arthur did when fighting not to roll them. “Sire.” She looked up at him once again. “My assumptions are immaterial. He _is_ Emrys. He _will_ do as he must, no matter what he does or does not know. He can’t help himself.”

Arthur shook his head, once, curt and just as frustrated as she seemed to be. “So you can disparage him for not acting as you think he should have, and at the same time, spout nonsense about fate as if nothing you do could interfere with him or sway him from it. You do see how utterly ridiculous that is, don’t you?”

One of the men standing near the fireplace asked, shaken, “Emrys truly didn’t know?”

Arthur took a long breath and shifted his unimpressed gaze to that man. “ _Merlin_ was a boy who thought he came to Camelot to be a physician’s apprentice. And if it weren’t for his mother sending him here, to a family member for safekeeping, he would not even have been that.”

Byrdde tipped her head, pointed as she said, “And yet his mother did send him, as and when needed.”

Arthur snorted. “Only for you to complain about his timing, apparently.”

“His destiny – ”

“His destiny,” Arthur interrupted severely, “is a riddle pieced out to him on a dragon’s whims. And he did the best he could with that. How can you possibly sit there and revere the perfect working of fate, while simultaneously deriding him for not doing it the way you wanted him to? And while we are on the subject, how many of your ilk got in the way over the years with schemes against Camelot, or alliance with my sister – poisoning attempts by high priestesses - you realize you were working against him, don’t you? Against your vaunted _thing_ of fate?”

No one spoke while they mulled that over. A log snapped in the fire, sap fizzling in the flames, and one of the men toed a few chunks of embers back toward the grate. Finally, Byrdde drew herself up in her seat and proclaimed, “It doesn’t matter. Many were driven to act ill, and their reasons vary. Perhaps their faith faltered; I cannot know.”

“Your own goddess tried to impale me with a spear. Did her faith falter too, or was that you?”

“Even the gods are fallible!” Byrdde let out a shuddering breath, and while her temper was obvious, Arthur thought he could also see some hint of discomfiture in her posture too. "Emrys prevailed in spite of us, which is testament to his power and the correctness of his purpose. And if ignorance is the affect that he chose in order to best bring us here, then his wisdom has also prevailed, and we must acknowledge that. Our anger is misplaced, and we will repent of our lack of faith, but it doesn’t change what he is.”

This was going nowhere. "Right." Arthur sighed off to one side. "Your _creature._ A bloody archetype."

“Yes.” Byrdde relented and looked down at the table’s surface. “I forget, sometimes, how we sound to outsiders. Mad, perhaps. Cruel at times, and contradictory. In the old days, before your father or his father came here, most of its followers worshipped and observed the rights of the old religion out of fear. Not devotion. For the world is often a terrible and cruel place where even the gods themselves are subject to its relentless consumption and cycles of years. And those cycles are mindless. There is no motive, only motion seeking balance. The awful truth that we live with is that the old religion has no agenda of its own; it simply is, and we are caught in it. Not even the gods can escape.”

Arthur sighed and tried to convey tolerance, since Byrdde did seem to be trying to help him understand them. “You cannot expect me to believe that you have no agenda.”

“I do have one,” Byrdde clipped back. “Most of us do. But that is a separate thing – a thing of men and women. It sits beside the old religion; it is not _of_ it, and we certainly don’t control it, much as we sometimes still try.”

Arthur propped his elbow on the table and dropped his brow into his open hand with a sharp exhale that almost graduated to an unkind word. To say that the old religion had no agenda seemed ludicrous to him; _something_ out there seemed to have a very clear agenda. If it wasn't man or woman, then it had to be the magic itself, didn't it? After all, Merlin himself told Arthur that sometimes, the magic wants things. Sometimes, it takes over. That implies a purpose and a thing to drive it. After pinching the bridge of his nose, Arthur slumped upright again in his seat. “Fine. Assume for a moment that I accept this explanation. It doesn’t justify why you won’t even recognize someone who is like you.”

Byrdde drew in a steadying breath. "He is not, though. Your Merlin is not like us. That is the point I am trying to make."

Arthur shook his head and dug a thumb briefly into the bridge between his eyes. “Ma’am, forgive me. But all I hear is that you expect things of him, but refuse to acknowledge him in return. He has delivered you. Is that not what you wanted? Is it not good enough?”

“ _You_ have delivered us,” Byrdde countered. “And if I may be so humble, you have done so in spite of us and our hostility, which I sadly admit, lingers even now.”

“If I did, then you still deny his contribution to that.”

“Do you thank the wheat for growing?”

Arthur tried hard not to let the burst of air that he forced through his nostrils become a scornful snort. “Yes! Every year, in fact.” Widening his eyes for effect, he added, “On Samhain. I know you know that.”

“We are getting nowhere.” Byrdde shook her head. “This can hardly matter so much to your kingdom. Can you not just accept our ways, and that they are a mystery, and perhaps an annoyance to you?”

“Can _you_ not just accept that Merlin does not deserve your censure?” Arthur flipped his hand over and gestured, palm open, to the gathering in general. “If nothing else, Merlin is a member of my court. He is royal. He is my heir. And you owe him an allegiance just for that. You cannot give that, as a citizen of Camelot, if you keep calling him things like _creature_ , and avoiding him because of your superstitions.”

"You saw the triple goddess, did you not?"

"Yes," Arthur gusted. He was really trying not lose patience here, but all he wanted to do was snap and rail at her for her disrespect. He didn’t have to change the laws, after all. And she only benefited now – only had the right to speak to him in peace now – because of how Merlin made him doubt the path that Uther set him on. “Yes, I saw the triple goddess, as you well know.” 

"Are you certain?"

Arthur angled his head back around and frowned at her. "What do you mean?"

"Did you see the goddess," Byrdde pressed, "or did you see us – my sisters and I?" 

"I thought you spoke for her," Arthur replied, his voice low. 

Byrdde nodded. "So you saw us – her mouthpieces. But are the mouthpieces also the goddess? Or is the goddess too abstract to ever see with your eyes, or hear with your ears, other than through the reflection – us, the vessels – with which you may interact? After all, she is so vast, and so unfathomed, that it takes three of us to convey even a part of her to you. If not for us, would you be able to know of her at all?"

Arthur shut one eye more tightly than the other, clenched his teeth briefly, and finally said, "Surely this is a question for your priests; why are you asking me?"

"I am trying to help you understand our position towards Emrys, since you will not let it go. Please, sire – try to answer. The distinction is important."

Arthur made a quelling gesture and then slanted his gaze aside, noncommittal. "Alright. Alright, then I suppose, no. I didn’t see the goddess."

“But you did,” Byrdde countered.

Arthur gave up on his composure and grabbed his hair as an excuse to growl into his elbows. Very regal of him. He didn’t care at that point.

Byrdde patted the table, set her cider aside into that spot she'd just touched, and then asked Arthur, "Do you know of a woman called Freya?” 

Arthur emerged from his elbows and flared his nostrils, but he didn’t release his hair. “No. Who is she?”

Byrdde cocked her head as if she were about to win some small victory. "Your Merlin has not told you of her?"

"No," Arthur replied. "There are, in fact, many things he has not told me, as he does not owe me an accounting of his entire life. What is your point in all of this? Are you trying my temper on purpose?"

"Inadvertently, perhaps," Byrdde admitted. “It is...habit, sire. I apologize if it offends."

Habit? That was the excuse she chose? "It’s bloody sophistry. If you hadn’t said as much, I would not think you retired from your former vocation at all."

Byrdde's face brightened in surprise as if Arthur had paid her some profound compliment, but she moved on without addressing it. "Then you have not heard the name Freya. Have you heard of the Lady of the Lake?”

Whatever patience Arthur normally had was already gone, so he made no attempt at modulating the heat in his voice when he replied, “I don't see how this is an answer anymore. Stop deflecting from my questions. Otherwise, I am going to wonder why we are speaking at all.”

“Do you know of her?” Byrdde pressed.

Since she insisted on this, and Arthur wasn't quite ready to give up his purpose in coming here yet, Arthur drew a sharp breath to calm himself. “If you refer to the spirit of the lake on the road north past the mountains, then yes. I am aware of the stories people tell.”

Byrdde nodded. “Do you remember the first time you heard of her?” 

Arthur blew out a sharp, aggravated breath and finally let loose his death grip on his hair. “I don’t know. A few years ago. My patrols brought back stories about a woman in the water who appeared to fishermen, or retrieved things lost in the lakebed. She supposedly saved a drowning boy who fell from his father’s boat last summer. It’s not an unusual tale, though; the woods and peasant villages are full of such fables.”

Byrdde appeared relieved that Arthur had chosen to engage with her on the subject. “Yes, sire. But not all of them are fables. You are correct that it was only a few years ago that this lady first appeared. Before that, the lake had no spirit in it. No tales, no ghost stories. And nothing of the old religion dwelt there aside from abandoned groves and the usual minor, wild magics.” She angled herself the other way in her seat and, as if it were entirely unrelated, told him, “Freya was a young woman whom Emrys once thought he loved.”

A dim recollection came to Arthur, overshadowed by what followed, of Merlin telling him about a woman he might have loved in some way, or maybe pitied and wanted to protect. He could all but smell the autumn leaves, and the damp earth of a ravine as they rode through it, the air thick with Arthur’s teasing and ill-thought words, and the poignant scent of horse as Merlin tried to awkwardly explain how he had felt once, kissing a girl. “Why is this important?”

“I am answering your question,” Byrdde asserted again. “Freya was cursed.” Her voice shifted to a tone of legends spoken around campfires even though it wasn’t so long ago. “Through no fault of her own. Perhaps he pitied her or felt some affinity for one he mistook as being like him. He may even have thought it love, of a sort, but I doubt that it went beyond a faint philia at best. He only knew her a handful of days. She was, of course, doomed, and her death tragic. He took her to the lake, and put her body in it.”

Arthur breathed slowly to obscure any tell he might have that part of this tale was known to him, albeit from the other side. 

“The Lady of the Lake lives there now,” Byrdde told him. The distance faded from her gaze, and she focused on Arthur again. “She is a thing of the water, as spoken of in the old ways. But she is not only Lady in _that_ lake. She is the Lady of _All_ Lakes. All bodies of still water are her domain."

Arthur swallowed and confessed, "I don't understand."

"In your parlance, he made her a goddess," Byrdde replied. Though her tone remained direct and even reverent, to a degree, something about her face spoke of distaste. "He created something divine out of an infancy of grief, and gave her the waters to bide."

Not distaste, Arthur realized abruptly. Fear. The absent, unthinking kind. The same visceral fear that Merlin had once worn just beneath his skin, so much a part of him that not even Merlin himself really knew it was there. In fact, he still wore it, if Arthur were being honest. Or some part of it, at least. “What… What are you saying, exactly?”

“That you keep claiming that he is like us – that he is one of us – but that one incident alone shows that he is not.” Byrdde leaned forward over her hands folded together on the surface of the table. “You ask why we want no acquaintance with him. It is not cruelty, sire. It is self-preservation. Emrys – _Merlin_ – whatever you call him, however you define him to yourself – it is a fact that he took a woman he barely knew, and could not have truly loved, and made her that – that _thing_ in the water. There was nothing in that lake, or those woods, but him. No magic but his, no sleeping force of nature, no holy ground. He took a paltry sorrow, superficial at best, and fashioned a dead, mortal woman into a being that will last forever. She is Lady of the Lake, and she _is_ the lake manifest. Immutable. Elemental. A creature of the old religion.”

Arthur looked at the still surface of his cider. He could hear Leon shift his weight again behind him. 

“Do you see, sire? If his sorrow at the death of a stranger could alter the elements themselves to bear up a goddess from dead waters, what might he do to those he truly cares for? To those for whom his love or his grief is real?”

Arthur looked up and his chest expanded with fallow breath scented heavily with the cider and alcohol in his untouched cup. He thought, perhaps unkindly, of Guinevere. Of how she was dead, and how Merlin had loved her too. Truly loved her, as his friend and his queen. Byrdde had to be wrong, because surely if Merlin could do such a thing, he would have done it for Guinevere.

Gruff with the tattered remnants of his well-worn grief, Arthur asserted, "I don't believe you. And I object to you dragging him into your bestiaries and origin stories while he still lives to suffer the stigma of them."

"Your belief is your choice," Byrdde allowed, though her tone held no finality. “Be reassured that he doesn't do it on purpose; he likely couldn't. As you pointed out, his affect is ignorance of his own path and power. He has no idea what he’s capable of – that it was him who made her what she is now. And there is every possibility that she is not the only one to whom he has done this." Byrdde shrugged to demonstrate her lack of complete knowledge. "We have no way of knowing if there are others until they show themselves, _if_ they show themselves. But surely you see the danger. I have served a goddess - been her mouthpiece - and even I am not so foolish as to wish to be one. No sane person would want that."

Just to be contrary, Arthur sourly remarked, "Freya may disagree, since her other option was death."

"Freya is not Freya anymore," Byrdde rejoined. "She is the Lady of the Lake. She cannot know now what Freya may have wanted."

Arthur rolled his eyes, however rude the gesture. "I understand that this is your way and your belief, but it is not mine. My only concern is my kingdom, and Merlin is part of that. I must insist that you give him the respect due his rank, and nothing you have said here serves to justify your refusal."

The man standing behind Byrdde broke in to swear, "We do not disrespect Emrys, sire. We don't dare." Several other heads nodded, emphatic and fervent.

"And yet you accuse him of - " Arthur flapped a hand about, incredulous, to try to sum up the load of drivel he had just been served. "You know what, I don't even know what you're accusing him of, but it's clear that you are. I came here looking for common ground and compromise - a way for all of us to find a point from which we can move forward, and heal the divide in this land. Do you really want peace with Camelot - with me - or are you so married to this Emrys prophecy that you would undermine your interests at the first step?"

Byrdde shook her head and leaned forward to catch his eye. "We do not accuse. We only state what is. Consider, just for a moment, if what I've told you is true. What does that say about the man you call brother?"

"That his heart is bigger than yours," Arthur sneered. "Since I gather that no one here would have mourned this Freya even superficially."

"We mourn what she became," Byrdde snapped back. "Sire, think of that power wielded in ignorance by a child, for that is Merlin's affect. He _doesn’t know_. And he doesn’t ask, because it doesn’t occur to him that he should. He looks at a thing like the Lady of the Lake and is not surprised, or horrified, or anything at all because a child sees the world clearly – more clearly than us – and accepts it as it is. They ask questions all of the time but they don’t _question._ They don't have the capacity for deeper thought on the nature of what is real."

"And now you insult his intelligence too." Arthur let his gaze roll off to the side again, pretty much done with this conversation. 

"It is not an insult," Byrdde argued, intent. "Childlike innocence is divine, but it does not comprehend consequence, and it cannot be culpable the way that we can be. When we call Emrys - _Merlin -_ a creature of magic, or a thing born of it, that is what we mean. He is not just a mouthpiece, as I was. He is not possessed by anything. He embodies the elemental magic of nature - he is himself a force of it. And there is no thought to a force of nature. It does not question itself. It is terrible and it is fearsome, but it is also innocent.”

Arthur picked at the uneven surface of Geraint’s table in noncommittal search of a splinter. “It cares no more about you than a flood might.”

With evident relief to finally be understood, or at least to assume as much, Byrdde nodded. “And like flood waters, it does not intend to do either evil or good. It simply is. It flows as it must, and it will balance itself when displaced. It will spread with no care for submerged fields or drowned houses, until it runs its natural course. It may have a manifest aspect like the Lady of the Lake, but the water is still the water at the end.”

Arthur knew what she meant him to infer here – the water as a metaphor for magic, and Merlin its witless and pointless manifestation – but it was a cold thing, and he still thought it cruel, and it just rubbed Arthur all wrong. “Merlin is not a flood. I would have noticed."

"There is a dichotomy, yes," Byrdde agreed, though it didn't explain anything. 

Arthur inflated his chest with as much air as he could manage, and rubbed his hand over his face as he slowly exhaled all of it. "And what of me?” Arthur shook his head and shoved the cup of cider across the table. A wash of orange-brown liquid slopped over the rim of the cup to stain the wood grain beneath it. "Should I fear him as you do?”

With no embellishment, Byrdde simply replied, “He loves you.” But she said it in warning, too. “You are his Once and Future King, just as the Great Dragon told him you must be.”

Arthur stared at her, his gut a slow-simmering mass of indignation and affront. It would be easy to lash out. He wanted to. He wanted to yell at these people, and expose them for their machinations, because he thought he saw the implication here and it sickened him. But he didn’t. It wouldn’t serve anything. 

“He can define reality,” Byrdde told him. “You know this. You’ve seen it. His will can be the will of the world; it bends for him – life and death, good and evil, despair and hope – and he doesn’t even know it. He is the definition of a manifest destiny, as he has, in fact, manifested one for you.”

Like molasses creeping down a sloped surface, Arthur reared his head back on his neck. “That is offensive.”

“It is,” Byrdde agreed. “Though I doubt you find it so for the right reasons.”

“I’ll hear no more of this.” Arthur shoved to his feet. “I will not listen to you malign him for faults that _you_ put on him.”

“Prophecy is a self-fulfilling thing,” Byrdde persisted; she didn’t even have the decency to stand when her king did. “It lives only because men believe in it, and what he believes has a life of its own.”

Arthur took a long breath, lungs pressing against his ribcage, and stood with his eyes fixed on the table where it was safe to look. “I will take care of the wards on the perimeter walls, and so long as you break no laws, I will not object to your ways. Beyond that, our business with each other is concluded.”

As Arthur approached the door, Byrdde’s voice stopped him. “Do you know what the Once and Future King is, Arthur Pendragon? What they told him you are? What he will one day make of you?”

 _The greatest king that Albion has ever known._ Arthur had clung to that at times in the past when nothing else remained to bring him hope. When his faith in himself faltered. 

“He will not let you go. He cannot anymore. The pieces have been set, and he is trapped now too, perhaps by his own device. Do not walk with him blindly.”

Manipulations – she all but admitted it. If the old religion, or magic, had no agenda of its own, as they claimed, then this destiny Merlin clung to was a thing made only by men and women, and they used him unwitting to further it. Merlin believed what others told him. What others insisted must be true – impossible, made-up stories spewed out by the dragon and Gaius and druids, and Myrddin, and who knew who else. Prophecies shoved down his throat from the moment he came to Camelot. Things he never would have thought on his own. All contrived by people. Not gods. Reality didn't have to bend for him; Merlin was gullible as a youth, and stubborn, and when he set his mind to something, he really couldn't be deterred. Arthur didn't see any sort of _manifest destiny_ in where they stood now. He saw the lie and the victim of it, and nothing more.

Arthur squeezed his hand into a tight fist at his side and spit with his back still turned, "Your words are foul."

Leon touched the tips of his fingers to Arthur’s shoulders as if to ground him, or caution him against the temper he could certainly see flaring in Arthur’s darkening countenance. Arthur had fury for himself, too. In the same breath that they denigrated Merlin as a useful idiot, they diminished Arthur with the implication that he was only king, only good, only destined for greatness because Merlin existed. That without him, Arthur was nothing. Could be nothing, would have done nothing. That his achievements were not his, and never would be; that everything Arthur accomplished was credit only to Merlin. It hurt more because Arthur knew he'd be dead now if not for Merlin, and perhaps, considering the great uncle as well, Arthur may have never existed at all. And even setting that aside, had Arthur survived on his own to be king, he _wouldn't_ be the man he was today. He knew that. He wouldn't be good, much less great, without Merlin's intervention. And so he owed his own success to Merlin's victimhood at their hands too.

"Shall I tell you," Byrdde asked archly, "the prophecy of the Once and Future King? Shall I tell you where he believes you are bound?"

Arthur lifted his face to the door before him, thick wood planks that nonetheless let in a terrible draft through cracks that betrayed wan daylight outside. _The bear. They’re killing the bear._ In a field on fire, near a lake. Near...near still waters. _Fall by the lake. Let them take you._

Arthur twisted to look over his shoulder, and wanted to rage at the pity on Byrdde’s face. “I know where I’m bound," he hissed. "And it is _my_ doing. _My_ choice. Not his doing, and not yours.” Just for the comeback value of it, he modulated his voice and added, "I'll give Freya your regards when I get there." Then he whirled and shoved through the door, spending his pent-up violence on the wood instead of on the infuriating face of a woman who now taunted him with fate and destiny and lies for a second time. He didn't dare pause to see how she took that, as any shock she might show on her face would not be near satisfying enough to dampen his temper.

Snow had started falling again while they lingered inside, and Arthur kicked through the accumulation wishing that the knights were practicing this afternoon so that he could hit something repeatedly. Leon hurried after him, his sword in his hand since Arthur didn’t leave him time to buckle it back on properly. They were nearly at the end of the street when his frantic voice called out a plea to wait. Arthur slowed his steps, feet slogging in the ankle-deep mush of ice and mud churned up by cart wheels and mules. 

“Sire – ”

Over his shoulder, Arthur spat, “Do not tell me you warned me!” 

Sounding hurt, Leon protested, “I wouldn't, sire.” 

Arthur ground to a halt in the middle of the street and huffed out a collection of breaths that fogged before his face in the frigid air. When he could be certain of a modicum of control, Arthur said, “I apologize, Leon. You don’t deserve my temper.”

Rather than address the apology, Leon cautioned, “You need their cooperation and approval, sire. If you truly wish to integrate their kind, and not simply tolerate magic, then it may be unwise to alienate them, even if their notions are offensive.”

“If I have to make concessions,” Arthur snapped back, “then so do they. I will not allow them to malign others on the excuse of their gods or their traditions, or their superstitions, as that is all they are! They must also learn to cooperate and respect the ways of others, or this endeavor will fail, and I will be glad of it."

Leon stepped closer so that their words would stay private in a snow-muffled street where sound would carry far across ice and cold. His fingers were still occupied with replacing his sword belt. He must have simply grabbed it all up from beside the door in his haste to keep up with Arthur. "With respect, sire, you do not mean that. This is not about cooperation or compromise. If it were, you would allow them their stories and their delusions without care. Instead, you are insulted because they said things you don’t like about Merlin.”

Arthur sucked in a breath so chilled that he could taste the icy numbness of it on his tongue, but he didn’t get a chance to spew out whatever thoughtless vitriol he could feel choking his throat to escape the confines of his mouth. When he turned, it was to find Geraint was standing a few feet past Leon’s shoulder, his eyes wide and a shamed expression on his chilled face. He obviously overheard at least part of that exchange.

Arthur stepped in a tight arc until he could face Geraint. "What is it?"

“I know what it’s like to be a pariah,” Geraint gasped, evidently winded from chasing them down, or perhaps in equal part from building up the nerve to go after him and say anything at all. “I was born with magic too. The common kind. It is nothing like Master Merlin’s, but I do know what it feels like to be shunned for something that you cannot help. To be told what you are rather than have the choice. And he doesn’t deserve that any more than I did. If they will not see reason – ” He gestured behind him to the small collection of people filing out of his house. “Then _I_ will do as you ask. I want cooperation. I will make an effort to bridge the gap between us.”

Arthur drew himself up straighter and glowered at the man who had once fallen to his knees and hailed his king with all the breath in his body. “I won’t tolerate fake congeniality. And I won’t allow Merlin to be insulted by mindfulness born of pity or obligation, even if he would accept whatever dregs he could get.”

“It is not pity,” Geraint breathed. His voice somehow carried across the space between them, and above the constant din of sound that billowed about the lower town. Maybe it was magic, or maybe just a trick of the wind, which could also, in its own natural way, be magic. “Master Merlin has done nothing against any of us that we didn’t deserve. And you're right; the old religion is cruel, and has been cruel to him. Byrdde follows the cult of the Triple Goddess; it comes with its own dogma, but that is all it is. I implore you not to listen, and not to judge us by her words. Priests and priestesses fall out of touch with the world after spending decades in dark places immersed in strict worship. She hasn't the capacity to think for herself anymore. Please forgive her. In her own way, she is also a victim of the old religion, whether she believes so or not."

"So you don't believe in the Triple Goddess?" Arthur asked.

"I don't believe in her mouthpiece," Geraint corrected. "The goddess herself is beyond us."

Arthur shut his eyes and sucked his lips in against his teeth before nodding. “You have been open with me today. And sensibly direct. I appreciate that. Will you take a seat on my council, at least temporarily, so that you may advocate for those like you?”

Geraint blinked and appeared much as he had before Byrdde and her demented ideals sidetracked their conversation. Guarded once again, he said, “Sire, I maintain that Master Merlin is better placed for that.”

“I know why you think that,” Arthur allowed. “But your views on magic differ from Merlin’s in the same way that a merchant’s views on trade differ from mine. That is why they have guilds to represent themselves to me. To voice concerns and viewpoints that I may otherwise never think to consider. Magic users have no guild, and while that may someday change, I need guidance now, from your perspective as well as his.”

That seemed to affect Geraint in a complicated manner. Picking his words carefully, he replied, “I think I understand what you mean, sire. But I don’t wish to offend him.”

“You won’t.” Arthur nodded to show his certainty of that. “He will find your counsel as valuable as I will.” By royal decree, if nothing else.

Geraint nodded, though he still seemed worried about it. “Then I would be honored, sire. I will endeavor to serve as you ask.”

Arthur nodded to him, and then glanced at Leon for confirmation.

Leon bobbed his head as well, looking pleased after all, and finally settled his belt so that his sword hung the way he liked it.

“Good,” Arthur announced. “Then it’s settled. A messenger will bring you information on when we meet, and the normal conduct."

“Thank you, sire.” Finally, a light kindled on Geraint’s face, bright and hopeful again, as it had been on Samhain. “For – for everything. All of it, thank you.”

Arthur’s mouth wobbled up at one corner, but he felt inexplicably troubled still, and a little bit sad. He didn’t know if he should revel in thanks for making a man equal to those non-magic citizens he should have equaled all along. His anger had gone, at least. “Go get your family back inside. It’s too cold for them to be stuck out.”

Arthur turned away as Geraint bowed, eager this time instead of desperately low, as he had done in the street with son shoved behind the shield of his body.

Several streets away, and back within the claustrophobic, narrow streets of the market district of the lower town, Arthur slowed, pensive. "What she said... The things she said..."

"Ravings, sire." Leon came abreast of him, and stopped when he did. "Earnest ones, perhaps, but still ravings."

Low enough that Leon probably strained to hear him, Arthur murmured, “He told me about that girl once. But not all of the rest of that...rubbish. Only that he thought he loved her, and she died.”

"Sire, I don't know what you want me to say."

Arthur glanced up at him, sidelong from beneath a somber brow. "Do you believe her? About what he is?"

Leon responded with silence, and the shamed aversion of his face. Maybe, then. Or maybe not. But he didn't dismiss it a second time as mere ravings.

"I see." Arthur took a gradual breath and nodded as he turned to continue up the street. The squelch of Leon's steps eventually trailed after.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

~TBC~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of extra trivia in case it's interesting to people the way that it was for me:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cKUz5Vjq9-s  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0JBdedLx-GI
> 
> I always found it weird why the Saxons invaded around the time that they did, more insistently than previous normal expansions/migrations, and in a way differently than other groups did around similar times, and no one found it odd in history studies or wondered why - they were too busy trying to figure out all of the whats and whos and whens, but not he whys. They apparently came en masse so memorably that a whole mythos built up around them and survived as part of the Arthurian legends, in fact as the end result and culmination of many of the Arthur stories. Rome was still there, and not acting oddly for Rome, so why suddenly migrate like that, forcibly, across the channel? And then I came across these videos and started digging into the climate around that time, and global geology. Interesting bit of trivia: that eruption and the subsequent cold spell that spread with the ash in the atmosphere to disrupt crop production and food supplies in Europe happened around 535-536 CE. By various stories/theories about the historical Arthur, the battle of Camlann where he died was 537 CE, or thereabouts. Even accounting for inaccuracies in determining dates of things like this, and whether or not that date can really be considered reliable for Arthur himself, I found the similar time frames of everything intriguing because something like this would absolutely explain a sudden violent migration of people from mainland Europe to try to settle in Britain where the food situation was a bit better. Of course, to Britain, that's an invasion and a threat on resources, and it's totally valid not to want them to come. Saxons, also, not really being known in the history books for their peaceful ways, as far as I've read - if they migrated en masse, it seems likely that it was a violent and conquering one. 
> 
> Anywho, I'm not an historian, so I am probably talking out the wrong orifice, lol, but I was interested in this and it ended up coloring this story a bit, so I thought I would throw it out there as food for thought, unrelated to the fic. Hope you guys are all hanging in there, staying safe and sane and happy during crazy times.


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